


Thistle and Weeds

by chess_ka



Series: Thistle and Weeds [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Abusive Partner, Abusive Relationship, Angst, Breaking Martin and then Fixing Him, Emotional Trauma, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_ka/pseuds/chess_ka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme. Martin has a man he considers his boyfriend, but said boyfriend is a nasty piece of work who treats Martin appallingly. With a little help along the way from MJN, Martin begins to move on and find happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tearing the Seams

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com)lady_t_220 for being a lovely beta.

It's not a conventional relationship, Martin will admit that much. They don't go on dates. They don't do much together, really; Pete will text Martin, and Martin will go round. They'll have sex, and then Martin might stay the night, or he might leave and go home. But at least, he tells himself, someone finally, _finally_ wants him.

He will never admit to the fact that he hadn't had sex before Pete; there hadn't been a chance, really. He had come out when he was eighteen, but had never been able to work up the courage to ask someone out, and no one had ever asked _him_. He understands why, of course; he is uptight, insecure and obsessive. He is short and skinny, with unruly hair in a startling shade of ginger, with weirdly slanting pale eyes sitting too far apart. He can quite well understand why no one had ever wanted him before.

Pete hadn't seemed to mind his obvious inexperience with sex. Martin would have preferred to go a little slower, but Pete could be very persuasive, and he knew what he was doing, after all. Sometimes Martin felt like he was letting something happen to him, rather than being an active part in it, but he wasn't sure how to make that change, or really what he wanted. He didn't really like sex sometimes (hated it, really), but what did he know? It was inexperience. It would get better. Besides, Pete seemed happy enough. He always came. He didn't seem to (care, mind) notice that Martin didn't always come.

Martin knows he's doing something wrong, and he has to work out what.

_____________

Martin lies awake long after Pete has fallen asleep. The room is quiet but for Pete's heavy breathing and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. A thin sliver of light from the lamppost outside cuts across the ceiling. Martin doesn't understand why he can't sleep; after all, it is far quieter here than in his awful house, the bed is more comfortable, and surely most people are relaxed and sleepy after sex? But Martin isn't. He feels like his nerves have been stretched out. His limbs ache, and he can't shake the dull sense of misery sitting at the back of his throat.

 _I must be doing something wrong,_ he thinks. _This isn't how normal people act._ He wonders what it is he's doing wrong, and how he can fix it. If he doesn't, then Pete will catch on, and he'll leave. Of course, what he has with Pete isn't perfect, but it's better than being on his own.

 _It will get better,_ he tells himself firmly. _I won't mess this up._

It takes him a long while to fall asleep. When he wakes up Pete has gone, and he sees himself out.

__________

“The Green Mile.”

“Obvious. The Colour Purple.”

“Even _more_ obvious. Pink Panther.”

“Ooh, good one.”

“Here we go, chaps! Coffee time!” Douglas and Martin's game takes a break as Arthur bounds through the door of the flight deck, two mugs of coffee precariously balanced. “What's the game today, then?”

“Films with colours in the title,” says Douglas.

“Oh, right! Erm. Okay. Erm. What about er... oh! Black Beauty?”

“Bloody hell, Arthur, I think you actually just got one!”

“I did!?” Arthur beams at Douglas, clapping his hands together in glee. _“Wow!”_

Martin can't help but smile at Arthur's happiness. He has been trying to shake his subdued bad mood all day. He hadn't even been able to scrape together his usual enthusiasm for his pre-take off checks, which Douglas must surely have noticed. However, apart from a few searching sidelong glances, Douglas has acted mostly as normal. Whatever his reasons, Martin is grateful.

As Arthur bustles off to start attempting to make dinner, Douglas turns to Martin. “All right then. What's up with you?”

“What? What? Nothing's wrong! Nothing!”

“Hm. So explain why your face is even longer than usual? You look like you're moping.”

“I'm not moping!”

“You certainly are. I mean, don't get me wrong, you're hardly the most cheerful tool in the fruit bowl at the best of times, but you practically _slouched_ on the walk-round.”

“It's... nothing.”

Douglas has a talent for pointed silences, and this is a particularly sharp one.

“I don't really know what it is.”

The silence's pointed end _gleams._

“Oh for-- all right, fine. Fine. Fine. I'm, er, I'm seeing this... this guy. Pete. And it's... well, it's great, really, it is, absolutely great, but...”

“But it's not,” Douglas finishes. “At all, judging by that spectacular display of self-denial.”

“No, it is, mostly!”

“Mostly? Or, mostly not?”

Martin is quiet for a long time, chewing on his lower lip. Douglas watches him carefully. “Mostly not,” he eventually says, very quietly.

“What is it?”

“I don't really want to talk about it,” Martin mumbles.

“I might be able to help.”

“No! No, I mean, it's... I'll work it out.”

“Well, all right. Whatever you say.” To his credit, Douglas manages to keep his voice almost completely free of sarcasm. There is a pause, this one less pointed. “The Red Shoes.”  
______________

 _Y rn't u answering ur fone?_

Martin chews on his thumbnail as the text blinks into view. He's sure that he told Pete he had a job and wouldn't be around for a couple of days. In fact, he _knows_ he did. Pete hadn't seemed to care. The text seems very curt. What if Pete is angry? What if Martin had told him wrong?

 _On a flying job to Rome. Back tomorrow evening. X_

He sends the reply off quickly, before he could think too hard about putting the 'X' at the end of the text. As he sits staring at his mobile, a sharp knock on the hotel room door makes Martin jump. The knock is followed by the appearance of Douglas.

“Bloody hell,” he comments. “I think I almost took the door of its hinges.”

“Must be your bulk,” Martin says, in an attempt at their usual banter. Douglas snorts.

“Come on, I intend to eat a truly ridiculous amount of pasta, and I believe we promised Arthur an entire pizza made of garlic bread. We don't want to disappoint him.”

“No, absolutely not,” Martin agrees, running his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt at taming his curls, and following Douglas out of the door.

The restaurant is very pleasant by MJN's standards, with some truly excellent wine which Martin only feels vaguely guilty about sharing with Arthur whilst Douglas sips at his fresh orange. The linguine he orders is really quite brilliant – although anything is brilliant compared to what he lives on at home – and Arthur hoovers down his garlic pizza at quite an astonishing rate. As they are laughing over Arthur's frighteningly accurate impression of one of their latest customers, Martin realises that the heavy lump in his throat has disappeared.

__________________

For Martin, the flight back from Rome is over far too quickly. He becomes increasingly distracted the nearer they get to England, and lost his and Douglas' word game by an even larger margin than usual. He has no idea how he manages to land Gerti (and judging by Douglas' affected limping and wincing when he leaves the plane, it is not a particularly good landing). He takes even longer than usual over his paperwork, and even does Douglas' for him – he justifies it to himself as all being part of his _job_ , that as captain it is his responsibility to ensure all the paperwork is in order.

A small voice at the back of his head mutters, _And you don't want to see Pete_ , but he squashes it. Of course he wants to see Pete! He just has a lot of work to do, and he really is quite tired from the trip. A good night's sleep and he'll feel right as rain.

It is dark by the time he finally gets home, and starting to drizzle. The key sticks in the lock as usual, and when he finally manages to force it open and stumbles into the hall he almost trips over the usual collection of shoes kicked haphazardly across the cheap carpet. There is movement in the kitchen, but most of the bedroom doors are closed; deadlines are approaching, so the students have finally decided to knuckle down a little.

“Evening, Martin!” calls Kate from the kitchen. “I just made a brew, you want one?”

“God yes,” he replies, following her voice. He likes this rotation of students; they are friendly and not too messy or noisy (as students go), and they chat to him quite often. Kate is short and bordering on overweight, with a quick laugh and nails bitten right down to the skin. She also makes superb tea.

They chat for a while, Martin telling Kate about Rome (she's never been, but really wants to travel one day), and Kate moaning about the amount of essays she has to write for various modules, as well as a week of practicals coming up. By the time Kate retires to her room with a cheery wave, Martin is once again feeling much better.

He has a shower and curls up in bed to read for a while. Among Martin's most treasured possessions, few as they are, are his books. He is a voracious reader, having spent a great deal of his free time at school sheltering in the library. His current read, a battered copy of _Murder on the Orient Express_ , is one of his favourites; he knows it by heart, but loves it nonetheless.

He has just reached the discovery of the scarlet kimono when his mobile buzzes and a message notification flashes up on the screen.

 _U cmin over?_

Martin frowns over it for a moment, before steeling himself and typing out his reply. _Sorry, really tired after the trip and getting an early night. Tomorrow?_

It takes only a few seconds for Pete's reply to come through.

 _Bullshit. Rome isnt that far. Ur only 10 mins away._

Martin tries to go back to his book, but finds himself distracted. It's true – Rome isn't that far, really. He is quite tired, but not as tired as he's making out. Maybe he should go over to Pete's. He sighs and puts the book back on his bedside table, before slumping back against his spartan pillows. If Pete is cross tomorrow he will just have to make it up to him. That's all.

He lies there for another few minutes, but the clawing feeling of guilt (fear?) grows progressively stronger.

 _Ok. Coming over now._ He sends off the text and pushes himself out of bed. He digs out some relatively clean clothes and clumps back downstairs.

 _Good._

Looking at the text as he heads off down the street, head ducked into the collar of his jumper, he wishes he'd stayed in bed with his battered Agatha Christie.

“Don't be an idiot,” he mutters to himself. “This is exactly what people do normally. Get on with it.”

Pete opens the door as soon as Martin knocks, pulling him into the hall. Martin opens his mouth to ask how Pete is, but before he can get any words out he is being kissed fiercely.

He kisses back, or tries to, but Pete is a very domineering kisser. He pushes his tongue past Martin's teeth, claiming his mouth. Martin tries to pull back slightly, to gentle the kiss a little, but Pete is insistent. Martin doesn't really like having Pete's tongue in his mouth, wet and squirming and strangely alien. It's something that isn't meant to be there, pushing and pushing and making it hard to breathe. But kissing with tongues is part of this, so eventually he always lets Pete take control.

Ten minutes later he is on his knees, Pete's hands clenched tightly in his hair. He closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing. He can't suck or lick or really do anything except what Pete is making him do. His lips feel raw and his jaw aches, and his knees are rubbing painfully on the carpet. A few minutes ago he had been hard, and Pete had squeezed him several times through his boxers as he sucked marks onto Martin's neck, and that had been _good_. But then heavy hands had pushed him down, and Pete had kicked off his boxers and pulled Martin's head to meet his cock and now Martin is uncomfortable and very definitely _not_ hard.

Pete is grunting and moaning slightly above him, occasional mutters of, “Yeah, like that,” and, “Fuck yes,” coming out of his mouth. His hips speed up and his hands tighten in Martin's hair. “Yeah, that's it, take it, take it, come on,” and he comes, hot and salty, flooding Martin's mouth. Martin tries to force it down his throat and not choke as Pete's hands finally relax and he moves away. He stays on his knees for a few moments, not trusting his legs, as Pete flops down on the bed on his back.

“Christ you're good for this,” Pete says. “You just take it.” He almost chuckles. Martin doesn't look at him; he is suddenly very aware of what he's just done. Humiliation burns in his gut. “Admit it, you're a bit of a slut. Aren't you?” Martin bites his lip and unsteadily gets to his feet.

“Bathroom,” he mutters. Pete waves a vague hand.

In the bathroom he rinses out his mouth as best he can, grimacing at the soreness of his lips and throat. Then he sits on the edge of the bath with a shaky sigh, head hanging down. He can't understand where he is going wrong. He knows there is nothing wrong with being submissive when it comes to sex – the idea of being dominant does nothing for him at all – but this is still going wrong. Pete _enjoys_ it, that much is clear, so why doesn't Martin? In theory, he likes the idea of giving head, he really does. It's just... different to how he imagined it to be. _You'll get used to it_ , he tells himself sternly. _Pete knows what he's doing._

With a final deep breath he lets himself out of the bathroom. The light in the bedroom is off and Pete is lying facing away from him. He can't face walking back home again, so he climbs in beside Pete and turns on his side. The sky outside is beginning to brighten by the time he falls into an unsettled sleep.

______________

The next two weeks pass in something of a blur. Martin manages to cram in as many trips as Carolyn can legally book (and during which she threatens Martin and Douglas with disembowelment, scalping and Chinese water torture on several occasions after small mishaps or ill-advised diversions. As well as this, he fits in van jobs during evenings, weekends, twelve-hour breaks between trips, and any other time he can. He is just about managing to keep his head above the water and feels okay about it all. He has genuinely had very little time to see Pete, who seems to have got the message that Martin is extremely busy, and doesn't harass him as much. He only gets a text every couple of days, now.

Once the two weeks are over, the relentlessness of them catch up with him. He staggers home after driving back from the airfield, just about manages to change out of his uniform and shower, before collapsing into bed, not caring that it is only eight-thirty in the evening. He wakes up at eleven the next morning, feeling groggy and heavy-limbed, his head pounding. By the tickling at the back of his throat, he suspects a cold is creeping up on him, and groans miserably. He has a couple of days off, and he does not want to spend them ill!

After a few minutes of self-pity, he hauls himself out of bed and downstairs. He heads to the bathroom first, emptying his bladder and cleaning his teeth to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. He glances in the mirror and grimaces; he is paler than usual, and his hair is standing up in all possible directions. Giving it up as a bad job, he takes himself to the kitchen. It is empty, and rather tidy since the students have all gone home for Christmas. He locates a glass and some painkillers. He trudges back upstairs after swallowing some paracetamol for the headache, a glass of water in hand. If nothing else, he reasons, this is the perfect excuse to spend a day being lazy in bed. Laziness is not something Martin often gets to indulge in, so he intends to make the most of it.

The painkillers kick in, so whilst he still feels groggy and achy, his headache and sore throat dissipate slightly. He curls in bed, occasionally reading chapters of his book (now onto _The Interpretation of Murder_ , which is a new one for him) or, more often, drifting in and out of a pleasant doze. He gets up sometime in the early evening. He knows he should eat, but isn't hungry at all. He has a hot shower, which goes some way to reviving him, and pulls on some clean clothes; his skin feels prickly as the material drags over it, and he wraps an extra cardigan around himself to stave off the cold.

He makes a cup of tea and curls up on the sofa, skipping through the channels on the rather flickery television. There is very little on: constant reruns of _Friends,_ some mindless chat show, and repeats of panel shows. He settles on the news, but he can't really concentrate. He clutches the hot tea in his hands and breathes in the steam.

Somewhere between a story about the lack of Christmas shoppers on Britain's high streets and the shortage of grit for the icy roads, Martin's phone buzzes.

 _Cm ovr later._

He hesitates, but knows already that he will agree. He is starting to feel better after the tea, anyway. He tells Pete he'll be over at about seven, and turns back to the television, already mentally counting down.

_______________

Pete's flat is in darkness, or so it seems from the street. Martin hesitates on the pavement for a brief moment, wrapping his jacket further around his trembling shoulders. Eventually he strides to the door and raises a fist to knock. The door moves slightly against his hand, and he pushes it open easily. He steps into the hall, calling Pete's name and running a palm haphazardly along the wall in an attempt to locate the light switch.

“Living room!” calls Pete from further inside the flat.

“Why on earth have you got all the lights off?” asked Martin, finally managing to illuminate the hall and make his way to the living room.

Pete is lounging in the armchair, a tumbler of amber liquid dangling from one hand that lies casually on the arm. Martin hovers in the doorway, arms wrapped protectively around his chest ( _from the cold_ , he tells himself). Pete watches him through slightly narrowed eyes, a smile playing around his mouth.

“Saving electricity,” he says eventually, tilting his head back. “I'm only in here, after all.”

“Right,” Martin mumbles. “Um, well, I'm here...” he shuffles his feet.

“So you are.” Silence falls again. It occurs to Martin that he should feel comfortable enough to take a seat in his boyfriend's flat. Instead he chews on his lower lip, waiting. Pete's gaze is becoming disconcerting, flickering up and down his body. After a few more moments Pete stands, setting down his glass and striding to where Martin is wavering in the doorway. Martin fights the instinct to take a step backwards as Pete looms over him, hands coming to rest possessively on his upper arms.

“You look like shit,” Pete comments.

“Um. Yeah, well, I-I've not been very -” Martin begins to explain, but Pete begins to steer him backwards out of the room, again into the darkened hallway, and he has to stop himself talking in order to concentrate on not falling over his own feet. He tries again. “Pete, wait, I mean-” but before he can get anything else out his back collides with the bedroom door, which swings inwards on impact.

“Pete-” Martin tries, but he is pushed against the bedroom wall and Pete's mouth is on his, smothering him, and his hands are shoving his jacket off his shoulders and yanking his jumper and shirt up, palms running non-too gently over his torso. Martin tries to wriggle free, but his arms are pinned by his half-removed jacket, and Pete is pressing against him and he can't move. Pete breaks the kiss long enough to yank off Martin's jacket, and then grabs the hem of his jumper and shirt in one hand.

“Lift,” he growls.

“No, Pete, listen...”

“ _Lift_ ,” he snarls, and there is an edge to his voice that Martin has never heard before. An icy feeling floods his stomach, and he finds himself obeying mutely, even as a voice in his head has started up a chant of _No no no don't no don't no no..._

The air of the room hits his fevered skin and he shivers even more violently. Pete's hands are back on his upper arms and his mouth back on Martin's, tongue forcing its way down his throat as he is steered roughly towards the bed. His knees hit the bed frame and he stumbles backwards, falling over the bed horizontally, Pete still on top of him.

He can't breathe. Panic is starting to cloud his brain and he is pinned down and he can't move and his heart is going to beat out of his chest and his limbs are trembling violently with fever and he is _scared_ now.

“Keep. Bloody. Still,” Pete grunts, finally releasing his mouth. He kneels up, pinning Martin with his knees and one hand as the other fumbles at Martin's fly.

“No!” Martin gasps, trying once more. “Pete, please don't, stop, I don't want-”

“Of course you do.” Pete has a nasty smile on his face and why did Martin ever, _ever_ see anything in this man? “You're here. You know what I want you for. Now shut the fuck up.”

“Let me go!” Martin cries, his voice cracking as he struggles violently once more. Suddenly stars burst behind his eyes as the back of Pete's hand connects sharply with his cheek.

“I told you,” he mutters, now forcing Martin's jeans and boxers down, “to shut. The fuck. Up.” Then Martin's hips are seized and he is forced over onto his stomach. He is slightly dizzy from the blow and terrified that this means he will pass out. _Keep calm_ , he tells himself desperately. _Deep breaths. Don't pass out, don't pass out, for God's sake._

As he hears the sound of a zip being pulled down, and a rustling sound, he knows without a doubt what is going to happen. He can do nothing about it. He closes his eyes and wills his body to relax. _It won't hurt as much if you relax. It'll be over soon. Don't think, don't think, just relax._ But it is no use. Every muscle in his body has locked down in desperate resistance.

He is not new to anal sex, not any more, but nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for this. The pain is brutal, and he can't help the choked cry that escapes his mouth. He squeezes his eyes tighter, tries to force himself to think of something else, of anything else, but his mind cannot get past the agonising sensation of being ripped in half. Pete's hot breath grunts at his ear, and the grip on his wrists is bruising, vice-like. All the while panic claws its way up his throat making him gasp and whimper as he struggles to breathe.

Finally, _finally_ it is over. Pete pulls out with a muttered, “Oh yeah...” and Martin hears him leave the room, shortly followed by the click of the bathroom light and the sound of the shower.

Martin doesn't trust himself to move at first. His whole body feels pulverised; there is no part of him that does not ache. He feels as though his insides have been taken out, beaten to a pulp, and then forced back in place.

 _Move_ , says a firm voice in his head. _Get up. Leave. Now. Move._

He feels strangely distant from himself as he forces himself off the bed and onto shaking legs. The pain is there, but dulled, as though he has been drugged; it is as though he is hovering over himself, watching. He watches as he crouches down, not trusting himself to bend over, to grab his clothing, as he struggles to get on his underwear and jeans, trembling hands pulling his T-shirt over his head, and forcing his unsocked feet into his unlaced trainers. The shower is still going as he limps out of the bedroom, clutching at the door frame as dizziness momentarily threatens to overwhelm him, before setting his jaw and forcing his legs to cooperate.

The pain deep in his gut blooms as he walks, and he returns to his own body instantly, desperately muffling a gasp of pain. He takes short, stiff-legged strides, and hopes against hope that he isn't bleeding through his jeans. Flight instinct has taken over, he has to get away no matter the pain, has to get home, has to be somewhere that isn't _here_.

Outside it is freezing and rain drops hit his bare arms like bullets, and he distantly realises he has left both jumper and jacket. He wraps his arms around himself, ducks his head, and limps off down the road.

_________________

Martin has never been so glad to see the horrible shared house, with the broken gate and the unexplained bus stop sign sitting in the middle of the soil that masquerades as a front garden. He leans heavily against the front door as he rummages through his pockets for his keys. He finds his mobile, and a few coins, but no keys. His stomach drops into his shoes as he remembers shoving his keys into his jacket. The jacket currently on the floor of Pete's bedroom.

It's the final straw. His vision swims, his gorge rises, and next thing he knows he is on his knees on the path, retching and gasping. His stomach is empty and his muscles clench and burn painfully as he heaves, choking on bile. When it is over, he stays where he has collapsed, shoulders shaking and drawing in frantic breaths. He can't get into his house, he can't get into his van, and what is he going to do? He can't stay here, because what if Pete comes after him? He can barely walk. He briefly considers going to the hospital, but the very idea makes panic flutter in his belly.

He closes his eyes, forcing himself to his feet. His whole body burns, and he can feel the warm dampness of blood on his thighs. His stomach roils again, and he collapses sideways against the rough brick of the house. He tries desperately to force his mind to work, to run through his options. Simon and Caitlin are both too far away. His thoughts land on Douglas... but no, it is Douglas' pre-Christmas weekend with his daughter, before her mother whisks her away for the holidays. He can't bother Douglas.

Really, that leaves Carolyn. She will moan and groan and snark, but what other choice does he have?

With shaking hands he pulls out his mobile, brushing rain away from his face to see the screen and hunching over to keep the rain off it.

The phone rings for a while, but eventually Carolyn's crisp voice echoes into his ear and he nearly weeps with the sense of relief her familiar tone brings. “Martin, you had better have a truly excellent reason for ringing at this ungodly hour.”

“Carolyn...” he says, his voice rough and quiet. He realises he has no idea what to say. “Carolyn I – I need help.”

“Help?” she barks. “What kind of help?”

“I... I can't really explain,” he says, “But I'm locked out of my house and I can't... I mean, I-” Hot tears well in his eyes, and a lump rises in his throat. He tries to force back tears but a sob manages to force its way out.

There is a quiet from the other end of the phone, as Martin tries to get his breathing under control. Then Carolyn speaks in what Martin recognises as her “mother” voice. “Martin, calm down. Now, what has happened?”

“I r-r-really can't say on the phone,” he mumbles, hating his stammering. “I _can't_. Carolyn, please, I have no one else to ask. I wouldn't ask you if I had another choice. I r-really need somewhere to stay. Just for tonight, I promise.” He cannot think past tonight.

“All right,” she says. “All right, are you at home? Good. Stay right where you are. I'm on my way. This had better be good, Martin, else I'll kick you so hard you'll be wearing my foot for a hat.”

Martin huddles into the wall, wrapping his arms around himself. He can't even contemplate sitting down; he has no idea how he'll get into Carolyn's car and drive to her house. He knows he should ask her to take him to hospital; he is concerned about how much he is bleeding. He cannot contemplate it now, though, going through the inevitable humiliation, the explanations, the interviews... all he wants to do is stand under a hot shower, then crawl into a bed and fall fast asleep.

It seems like hours by the time Carolyn's BMW rolls up, headlights shimmering in the heavy rain. Martin's fingers have gone numb, and he can barely walk as he makes his way up the path. He slides into the welcome warmth of the car, deliberately turning his head from Carolyn's hawk-like gaze to hide his wince of pain as he sits. A sharp pain rockets through him, and his head swims. For a brief moment Carolyn watches him, making him feel as though he is being x-rayed, and then she wordlessly hands him a towel.

“Don't talk,” she says briskly as she puts the car in gear. “I have no idea what's going on but you look an utter fright. You can explain this whole mess at home.”

 _She must know,_ Martin thinks to himself. _Or think she knows._ Carolyn is driving far more carefully than he has ever known her to ( _“Don't you have overtaking in Ipswich!?”_ ), slowing down to a crawl for speed bumps, and gearing down for turns. He is grateful; his beaten and pummelled body cannot take much more. He holds himself stiffly, knowing that the moment he allows himself to relax there is a high probability of his passing out. Carolyn shoots him searching glances, but otherwise focuses on driving.

Half an hour later, the looming shape of Carolyn's impressive house appears, two of the downstairs windows blazing warm, welcoming light.


	2. Alone in this Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The emotional trauma of having been raped is immense, and Martin needs all the help he can get.

Carolyn leads the way to the house, her stride imperious despite the rain. Martin trails behind her. He is starting to feel strangely distant from proceedings again, and wonders briefly whether he is going into shock. The hallway is filled with light and warmth, and the excited yipping of Carolyn's cocker-poo, Snoopadoop. She scoops the little dog up before she can leap up Martin's legs, and motions for him to shut the door.

“Arthur!” she calls. “Arthur!”

“Coming!” Arthur's voice drifts from upstairs, and Martin wonders what he is going to say to him. Carolyn is one thing, but Arthur, with his innocent, unshakable belief in basic human decency, is another matter entirely.

“Don't bother, just find some clothes for Martin to wear. He's drenched.”

“Okay! Be right with you, Skip.”

“And then sort out the guest room!”

“Right-o.”

Carolyn herds Martin towards the kitchen, Snoopadoop wriggling in her arms and panting happily. She snatches a large towel from a washing basket sat by the huge Aga, and hands it to him, before crossing to the kettle and filling it with water.

“Sit down,” she tells him as he wraps the towel around his shivering form.

Martin hesitates. He does not want to sit down, but he is shivering and the world is swaying slightly and Carolyn seems very far away. Passing out is not an option right now, but it will become a certainty if he stays vertical for too much longer. He does not know how much more he can take.

Gingerly, he lowers himself into a chair at the scrubbed oak table, perching on it as carefully as possible. A steaming mug of tea is set in front of him and he blinks it at dazedly; is it really only a few hours since he had been curled on the sofa at home, a mug of tea in his hands? His vision blurs with tears, and he blinks them away.

“Right,” Carolyn sits down opposite him, her tone business-like. “Arthur will be out of the way for a few minutes, so I suggest you explain now.”

“I...” he pauses, swallows thickly, and then tries again. “I don't know where to start,” he whispers.

“Perhaps you should start with that hideous boyfriend of yours?”

He glances up at her, and she waves a hand. “I am not daft, Martin. Douglas told me he was worried about what was going on, but god knows I listen to Douglas as little as is humanly possible. But now here you are, having called me in a complete state, outside in the pouring rain, in December, in a _t-shirt_. You can barely walk, can barely sit, and you have a pair of rather horrendous bruises on your wrists. Now, you can tell me, or I'll go with my working hypothesis that whatever brute you were seeing has rape-”

“Alright!” he yelps out, shame coiling hot in his belly. He does not want to hear that word. He _can't_ hear that word. “Yes, well done, your hypothesis is correct. Well done.”

He clutches the mug of tea so tightly he thinks his hands must be scalding, and stares at his wrists. He hadn't realised, but Carolyn is right; the pale skin of each wrist is marred by a bracelet of purple bruises. He closes his eyes.

A gentle touch to the back of his hand makes him jump, and he jerks his head up. Carolyn has reached across the table to him, and her eyes are gentle and sad and hurt and it's so far removed from her usual expression of irritation that he can't look at it for long. “Oh, Martin,” she murmurs, and those words have been said so often, usually in disbelief or humour or annoyance and now they're loaded with _compassion_ and he can't do this. Carolyn squeezes his hand and he turns it over so he can cling back for dear life.

They sit in silence for a few moments, the sound of Arthur's off-key humming floating down to greet them. Then, Carolyn clears her throat.

“I think we should take you to hospital.” Her voice is gentle and firm.

“Oh god,” he whispers brokenly. “I mean, I know I _should_ , but Carolyn... I can't, I can't talk about it, I can't tell them, and-”

“Martin.” The tone is stern now, and she sounds more herself. “You need medical attention. I am not ever, _ever_ going to pretend that this is going to be easy. It's going to be awful, but it's necessary. You need to be checked out, and you need to let someone know what has happened.” She pauses, seems to think over her words. “I promise you, I'll come with you, and I won't let you do it on your own. You may be a complete berk, but you're _my_ complete berk. All right?”

Words fail him, and he nods.

“Good. Now, I know you must want to wash but that will have to wait now. Arthur will have put those clothes in the room upstairs, so you go and change and I'll... I'll tell Arthur the bare minimum.”

They stand at the same time, and as she passes by Martin can do nothing but suddenly wrap his arms around her in a desperate hug, no matter that he's still damp from the rain and wrapped in a towel. To Carolyn's credit, she is only thrown for a moment before she pats him gently on the back. He releases her and stares helplessly at his feet. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just... thanks. I don't know what I would have done-”

“Martin. Shut up. Go and change.” She points sternly at the kitchen door. “Chop, chop!”

____________________

Martin is silent on the drive to the hospital, wrapped in his arms and the over-large striped jumper Arthur has lent him, which serves to make him look even more drawn. He holds himself stiffly, and slightly hunched over as though he has severe stomach pains. Carolyn tries very hard not to think about internal damage.

She had been enjoying a pleasant evening in, contemplating a bottle of red wine and a long soak in her beautifully large bathtub with a ludicrous amount of luxury bubble bath. She had just set up the bathroom with fluffy towels and her favourite dressing gown ready, when she had heard her mobile ringing in the bedroom. Martin's name on the screen did little to improve her spirits, and she had applied a few choice words to her inept captain before answering the call.

She had known instantly that something was terribly wrong. Of course, Martin was usually inarticulate and awkward, but in a pompous and prissy manner, not this quiet, almost frightened way. He had sounded on the verge of tears. Carolyn's maternal instinct (or, as she had taken to calling it, her inner Alpha dog) had reared its head and her feelings of irritation had vanished. Martin was ridiculous and annoying in every conceivable way, but he was also a young man who appeared to have nobody in the world to care for him. She knew she could not enjoy an evening in if she left Martin to his own devices.

She had picked Martin up from his grotty house, and her suspicions bloomed the moment he started to walk towards the car. Douglas had mentioned that Martin seemed to be in an unhealthy relationship, but she had not really given it a second thought until she had seen the way Martin was limping. He had sat down very gingerly, very obviously trying to hide his agonised expression from Carolyn, who had taken in everything immediately: his T-shirt that was soaked onto his skinny frame; his haggard face and dark circles under his eyes; the violent shivers wracking his body. When she handed him a towel to scrub at his dripping hair, she saw bruises ringing his bony wrists.

She had forced herself to be calm, to be rational, to take charge. She had taken him home, hoping against hope that there was a reasonable explanation and that she was jumping to conclusions. When Martin had confirmed her suspicions however, she had been unable to stop herself reaching for his hand across the table. He had looked so small and so very broken as he sat there, blinking back tears, and a hot swooping nausea flooded through her, along with stirrings of rage. _Calm,_ she told herself, _Anger later. You need to look after him._

So here they are, in silence, on the way to A&E. Carolyn concentrates on driving, not allowing her thoughts to stray too far down the road of worry and panic.

The waiting room is as busy as she expected. It is, after all, a rainy Saturday night. Martin can barely walk and has given up his pride in favour of leaning on her; she wraps an arm firmly around his waist and tries to keep him moving. At the sight of the bright, crowded and noisy waiting room he freezes, a small choked sound escaping him.

“Come on, Martin, nearly there,” she says, or begins to say, because suddenly he lurches and she looks at his face in time to see his eyes roll upwards and he collapses in a dead faint.

Nurses are already moving towards them and her cry of, _“Martin!”_ brings more. A nurse shouts for a trolley, manoeuvring Martin into the recovery position, checking his pulse. “Heart rate normal,” the nurse informs another; Carolyn suspects Martin's body has given out from sheer exhaustion. She stands by helplessly as Martin is placed onto a trolley and wheeled away. She has no idea if she should follow or not. Another nurse, this time a small, kind-faced woman, touches her elbow.

“Are you with him?”

“I- yes, yes I am.”

“You can come through,” the nurse says gently. “We'll need to ask you some questions.”

“Of course.”

Martin is being transferred to a bed on a ward, and as the nurse lets herself and Carolyn through she draws the curtains around them all. One of the men, this one seemingly a doctor, turns to Carolyn.

“You're with him?”

“Yes. Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.”

“I'm Doctor Williams. Are you family?”

“No, no. He works for me. He's a friend.”

The next few minutes pass in a blur. Carolyn answers all the questions put at her – Martin's name, age and, of course, what had happened. At this last she hesitates, unsure how to put it. The doctor prompts her, and she closes her eyes with a small sigh. “He was... assaulted, Doctor Williams. By his... well, I won't say boyfriend. I have no idea of the, ah, details, but he was struggling to walk and sit. I brought the clothes he was wearing with me... there seemed to be a lot of blood.” She had tried not to look, but had caught a glimpse as she had stuffed Martin's sodden clothing into a bin-liner.

Then she is being led away by the kind-faced nurse, who promises to keep her updated, and Martin is being taken away for scans and she doesn't realise how shaky she is feeling until the nurse sits her down in a quiet room with a cup of hot, sweet tea.

She watches the clock tick, with interminable slowness, through half an hour, and still there is no news of Martin. Then, the door creaks open and she leaps to her feet, but it is not a doctor, or a nurse. It's Arthur.

“Mum,” he says, his voice strained and lacking all its usual bounce. “Mum, I couldn't stay at home-” but she cuts him off by enveloping him in a hug. She has never felt so relieved to see her idiotic son, and he hugs her back with all the strength he can muster. When she finally gets him to let go they sit down and a rush of words seems to pour from him.

“I'm sorry, Mum, I'm sorry, but I couldn't stay, not with Skip hurt, I was really worried and I needed to... I mean, I listened in, to what you two were saying. Not on purpose, I just heard a bit when I was at the top of the stairs, and I didn't mean to hear! But... Mum, it's not true, is it? What happened to Skip? His-his boyfriend didn't...” he trails off, watching her with wide eyes, silently pleading with her to set the world to rights. She wishes she could. Instead, she nods, unable to look at him as she does so.

“But he- he'll be all right, won't he?”

“Of course he will. Not right away, of course, but he will be.”

“And that man. He'll go to prison. Right?”

“Oh, Arthur...” she takes his hand, wondering what she is going to tell him. “That really depends.”

“Depends? But he... he hurt Skip! He _has_ to go to prison!”

“Arthur, dear, I can't say what will happen. Martin may not decide to press charges. No, listen. Martin may decide not to press charges, and if that is the case then it is our job to support him as best we can. If he does press charges, it will be long-winded, complicated, and... it doesn't mean he will go to prison. Not many people do go to prison over these things, Arthur. It's a sorry fact.”

Arthur is white-faced. This news does not fit into his world view, in which good people do good things and bad people do bad things, and are summarily punished. She squeezes his hand.

“The important thing is to take care of Martin,” she says firmly. “Whatever he decides, and whatever happens.” Arthur nods decisively.

__________________

It is an hour later when the nurse comes back, accompanied by Doctor Williams.

“Mr Crieff is awake,” the doctor said in his slow, calm voice. “We have given him painkillers so he is a little woozy, but we have done what we can for him physically. His wrists will heal in time, he just needs to make sure not to jar them too much. He will need to be careful about moving over the next few weeks, and come back in for check-ups. We'll make sure he has all the details.” Here, the doctor hesitated. “We've taken all the samples needed, and you say you have Mr Crieff's clothing... I think it would be best if someone were with him whilst we discuss what to do next.”

Arthur hesitates at the ward as they follow the doctor and nurse. “Mum,” he says in a low voice. “Mum, I don't think...”

“You can wait out here,” Carolyn assures him. “You can see Martin when we've finished.” Arthur nods, relieved.

Martin is sitting up, wearing a hospital gown. He is almost as pale as the sheets of the bed, his freckles standing out starkly, and he is twisting his long fingers in the coverlet. He watches Carolyn with wide eyes. She sits next to him and lays her hand on top of one of his, stilling his nervous fidgeting. He gives her a small, nervous smile.

It is, by far, the most uncomfortable conversation Carolyn has ever been a part of. Martin refuses to press charges; on a visceral level Carolyn is desperate for that man to be punished, to be held to account, to face up to what he has done and pay the price, but she knows why Martin doesn't want to. He does not want to drag this out, does not want to relive the events, does not want to face his attacker... and the chances of a conviction are so small it almost doesn't bear thinking about.

“I just want to leave,” he whispers, voice hoarse with unshed tears. _“Please._ ”

Finally, with the promise that he will stay with Carolyn, and with information about a local Rape Crisis Centre tucked into her purse, the hospital let them leave. Martin insists on walking out on his own, though Arthur meets them outside and slings an arm around him to support him. Carolyn feels a surge of pride in her son at this. Martin accepts Arthur's help with a small smile and no protest. A nurse comes out with them and takes the bin-liner of clothing from Carolyn to add to the evidence, in case Martin changes his mind about pursuing a conviction.

It seems a very, very long time ago that all Carolyn could think of was a hot bubble bath and a bottle of red wine.  
_____________

Martin wakes up feeling very warm and comfortable, if a little fuzzy around the edges. He is curled in a foetal position under a heavy duvet, and for a wonderful moment he doesn't remember where he is. Then a crushing weight settles in his stomach as he realises that this is not his room, but Carolyn's guest room, and the reason he is in Carolyn's guest room... he buries his face in the pillow with a groan.

He doesn't dare try to move for the moment, and instead lies there listening for sounds of the house stirring, but there is silence. He is not surprised; they had arrived home very late the night before. He had escaped to the shower as quickly as possible, turning the spray up to the hottest temperature he could endure. He hadn't had the energy to scrub himself, and had instead just sank to the floor of the shower and let the water wash over him, wishing it could strip away the last few hours, make him _clean_ in a way he suspected he never would be again.

Now that he is awake, he is becoming vaguely aware of the pain, though it feels remote. He finally blinks his eyes open and, even though the light in the room is dim, the sky only just lightening behind the curtains, they water at the brightness. He can see very little from his position on his side; a bedside table with a lamp, and a large window covered by duck-egg blue curtains. He takes a deep breath, and shifts over onto his back; every muscle in his body feels as though it has seized up, as though he has run for miles. The pain is not as acute or as agonising as the previous day, but he has no idea if it will last.

The room is tidy, decorated in light, bright colours, and far more pleasant than what he is used to. The bed is by far the most comfortable he has ever been in, and he wishes he were better able to appreciate it.

He allows himself to drift a moment, floating in a haze of tiredness and dull pain. He has no idea how much time has passed, but a sudden knock on the door jerks him back to awareness. Before he can muster a response – his voice seems to have stopped working – Arthur's tousled head pokes into the room.

“Oh! Sorry, Skip, I was just checking if you were awake... um. Yeah. And you are.”

“I am,” Martin agrees, his voice hoarse and raspy, but a small smile twitches at the corner of his mouth at Arthur's presence.

“How are you... feeling?” He has never seen Arthur so wrong-footed.

“Bloody awful,” he says, trying to inject some level of self-deprecating humour into his tone. Arthur's smile is half-hearted, but still present.

“Well, I'm going to put the kettle on so... d'you want tea?”

“That would be amazing. I'll be down in a bit.”

As he climbs out of bed, movements stiff and awkward, he wonders at how he is feeling. Not physically, which is akin to being put through a meat-grinder, but emotionally; he feels... well, he feels nothing. Blank. It is not dissimilar, he realises, to how he felt after hearing about his father's death: after the immediate fallout, he had drifted through life like a zombie for days, acting on autopilot. The thought that he has a few days of that are almost a relief after the emotional exhaustion of the previous evening.

He manages to get dressed in some more of Arthur's spare clothes. He has to drag the belt as tight as possible for it to fit, and everything still hangs off him as though he is some sort of scarecrow. For a moment he wishes for his comfortable old pyjama bottoms and faded David Bowie T-shirt – his comfort clothing of choice.

He pauses for a moment outside the door, steeling himself to face company, which will inevitably include sympathetic glances and awkward, forced normalcy. The very thought makes him want to dive back under the covers and never come out.

 _Stop it, Crieff,_ he tells himself firmly. _You've got to deal with this, and you've got to start now_. He breathes in through his nose and heads for the kitchen. He has to take the stairs one at a time, holding onto the banister in a white-knuckled grip. He can hear both Carolyn and Arthur in the kitchen, along with the smell of sizzling bacon. His stomach growls hungrily even as nausea tightens the back of his throat; he's not sure how much food he can stomach, even though he has eaten nothing since Friday evening.

When he enters the kitchen, both its occupants freeze and look at him for a brief second, before deliberately turning back to exactly what they were doing, affecting nonchalance. Carolyn waves him to a chair, and Arthur plonks down a mug of tea with an overly-cheery, “Here you are, Skip!”

Martin sips the tea for a moment, until Carolyn slides a pack of tablets onto the table in front of him. He realises, with a heavy sense of resignation, that they are the heavy-duty painkillers he needs to take. Carolyn sits down opposite him in a mirror of the previous night, and watches him with an unreadable expression as he dry swallows two tablets.

“How are you feeling?” she asks quietly, under the cover of the sizzle of bacon that is being supervised – rather worryingly – by her son.

Martin hesitates, unsure how to describe it. “Numb,” he says eventually, and she nods.

“I think that's to be expected,” she says with a small sigh. She sips her own tea, her eyes on Arthur over at the Aga. “You can stay for as long as you need, you know.”

“You sound much less horrified by that prospect than you did before,” Martin points out, trying to keep his voice light. She doesn't smile.

“Let's say I've had a change of heart. God knows no one else will look after you.”

Martin's pride protests at the idea that he needs 'looking after', but is quickly subdued by a surge of affection for Carolyn, and a desperate need to have someone else in charge for a while. He cannot even begin to contemplate being home on his own right now. So he inclines his head with a mumbled “thank you”, and hopes Carolyn understands.

He is relieved not to have to talk when Arthur brings a plate of bacon sandwiches to the table. Arthur is quite happy to prattle on about whatever takes his fancy, and Martin lets the familiar noise wash over him as he eats.

Even the simple task of getting up and having breakfast seems to strip Martin of his energy; on top of everything else, he is still fighting what seems to be a strain of flu. He watches mindless television with Arthur for a while, but by mid-morning his temperature has begun to rise again and he is shivering. Carolyn takes one look at him and orders him to bed. He hasn't the heart to resist.

___________________

“Hello Carolyn, what a charming surprise."

“Douglas. I need you at the airfield for eight o'clock sharp tomorrow. We are flying up to Edinburgh.”

“Ah! MJN back in business, I take it? Our intrepid captain is fully recovered from his mysterious illness?”

“He says so.” No details have been forthcoming about Martin's being out of action, and Douglas hasn't bothered asking. A very large part of him hopes it will be something hideously embarrassing, so he can tease the captain mercilessly. It is about time he got some new material, after all.

It is beginning to get light when Douglas pulls up at Fitton airfield the next morning, the trees silver with frost. Arthur is already bounding around the portacabin looking far too cheerful, and Carolyn snaps at Douglas the moment he puts his head around her door. She looks far more on edge than a short trip to Edinburgh necessitates, but Douglas supposes their ten day break over Christmas has pushed MJN far more into the red than it has ever been.

He is reluctantly working on the loading sheet and sipping Arthur's coffee when the door finally swings open to emit a freezing gust of January air and Martin.

Douglas almost has to do a double-take: Martin, thin at the best of times, is now positively _gaunt,_ with dark shadows under his eyes. His cheeks are pink from the cold, but underneath he looks almost grey. Douglas finds himself wondering whether Martin has even been able to feed himself over Christmas.

“Morning, chaps,” Martin says and his voice sounds _almost_ normal.

“Morning,” Douglas responds warily. “Are you sure you should be here, Martin? You look a fright.”

“I'm _fine_ ,” Martin snaps, his voice tight and unhappy. “Just fine.”

He disappears into Carolyn's cupboard-cum-office, before slumping at the table to fill in the flight plan in preoccupied silence. He smiles when Arthur brings him coffee, but it looks strange on his face, as though he's forgotten how to do it.

Things are no better in the air; Martin speaks as little as possible, only opening his mouth when he absolutely has to. He tries to join in with Douglas' game, but is clearly paying no attention and soon stops entirely, not even protesting when Douglas decides that this means he wins.

After ten minutes of total silence, something completely unheard of in Gerti's flight-deck, Douglas just has to ask.

“What's been going on, Martin?” He tries to keep his voice gentle, since Martin is so clearly on edge.

“Nothing.”

“Martin. Carolyn told me you'd been ill, but is everything else all right? You just seem-”

“I seem _nothing_ , Douglas! I'm _fine_. Just leave it!”

“... all right.”

Silence falls again. “I'm sorry, Douglas,” Martin almost whispers. “I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

“It's all right.”

“Things have been... rough. Over the last couple of weeks.”

“I can see that.” A pause, and then Douglas says, as delicately as he can manage, “Are things all right with Pete?”

Martin's spine straightens so quickly he almost gives himself whiplash, every single muscle tightening in an instant. His jaw sets and he begins to blink rapidly.

“We...” his voice comes out so quietly Douglas has to strain to hear it. “We aren't together any more.”

“Oh. Well, I'm sorry?” He has no idea if this is the right response.

“Don't be. It's... just don't. I don't want to talk about it.”

“All right.”

Douglas has never felt so wrong-footed in his life.

_______________

That evening they land back in Fitton, having spent the flight back from Edinburgh making truly stilted conversation. Douglas tried once more to worm out what was wrong with Martin, but he has decided not to speak whenever anything comes up. Douglas tried his luck with Arthur, but even their steward was frustratingly close-mouthed, simply saying that he didn't know, and then plying Douglas with chocolate biscuits to distract him.

Once home, Douglas makes himself a cup of tea and settles himself in for a quiet evening, but he cannot shake the clawing sense of worry about Martin. It seems that, despite his better judgement, they have indeed become friends. Eventually, with a muttered oath, he grabs his coat and keys and heads out to the Lexus.

Martin's house looks dark when he pulls up, and Douglas hopes he's in now that he's dragged himself out here. The place is simply ghastly, and he wrinkles his nose as he knocks on the door with the peeled blue paint and split wood.

There is a fumbling noise behind the door, which eventually cracks open and he finds himself looking into the bleary red-rimmed eyes of Martin. On seeing him, the eyes frown.

“Hullo,” says Douglas. “Can I come in?”

“Douglas... no. No, 'fraid not. No.” Martin shakes his head vigorously, lisping slightly at the end of Douglas' name. Douglas knows the sign very well; Martin is drunk. Martin goes to shut the door, but Douglas is too quick for him and pushes the door open, forcing his way into the hall.

He expects Martin to be angry and snap at him, the way he had done earlier. He expects him to resign himself to Douglas' presence, and try to get rid of him as soon as possible. What he does not expect is for Martin to back away from him with a panicked expression.

“Martin!” he reaches out a hand, startled. “Martin, what on earth-”

“Douglas, _leave_ ,” whispers Martin. “Why are you here? You need to go.” He stumbles back one more step and hits the stairs, crumpling down onto them.

“Martin, you're drunk,” said Douglas firmly. “You're drunk, and something is going on. I want to help.”

“You can't. What you can do is leave. I want to be left alone.”

“That's clearly not a good idea, is it?”

 _“Douglas.”_

“No. You are going to get up, drink some coffee, and then talk to me. Where is everybody?”

Martin's head sags forwards and he buries his face in his hands. “Still on holiday. Students have long holidays.”

Douglas seizes Martin's elbow and yanks him to his feet, supporting him as he sways and staggers, before leading him to what appears to be the kitchen. He deposits the shorter man into a cheap wooden chair and fills the kettle.

Armed with two coffees, he settles himself with as much grace as possible and fixes Martin with his most parental glare. “Now. Talk.”

___________

Martin stares at Douglas helplessly, because there is absolutely no way he is going to tell Douglas what happened. He has not spoken about it to anybody, not since the hospital, and he intends to keep it that way. He had returned from Carolyn's after two more days, after managing to lie to his landlord about losing his keys and paying for a new set (he didn't even have the energy to be concerned that the landlord didn't want to bother changing the locks). He had been so glad that the students were not around; he did not think he could cope with being around people right now.

The first night he had been unable to sleep, tossing and turning for hours, his skin feeling as though it was too tight for his body. He had finally dropped into an unsettled doze in the early hours of the morning, only to be woken from the throes of a nightmare sweating and shaking.

The next night he hadn't dared sleep, but had paced the house for hours, drinking endless cups of coffee, and forcing himself to sit in the uncomfortable kitchen chairs and read. He had a cold shower early in the morning, exhaustion thrumming through his body, but all to no avail; he had dropped off late morning, slept the day away and woke up from yet another nightmare feeling groggy and miserable

Eventually he had called Carolyn, utterly desperate to return to work for a dose of normality and for something to _do_. He wasn't sure how much he had convinced her that he was all right, but she had agreed anyway. He had had an agonising knot of worry in his stomach the morning he returned, and it had grown and grown all day under Douglas' questioning eye. He had never been so glad to leave the airfield, and had run home as fast as possible.

Once home his eyes had fallen on the bottle of cheap whisky sitting on the counter and, despite knowing it was possibly the worst idea he could have come up with, had been so desperate to stop _thinking_ for a while that he had given in to instinct.

And now Douglas is here, and asking questions and he doesn't know what to _do._

“So, is it about Pete?” asks Douglas, taking a sip of his cheap coffee. “When did you break up?”

Even the sound of Pete's name made Martin's gorge rise. He stares at his coffee, unseeing, wondering whether Douglas will leave if he is ignored.

“Martin?”

Of course not. Douglas is as tenacious as a lobster.

“I don't want to talk about it, Douglas. Why can't you respect that?” His voice slips and slurs with alcohol.

“I could, but since you're here, alone and drunk, I imagine that shows something is very wrong and you have no one else to talk to.”

Martin doesn't look at Douglas. He keeps his gaze fixed on his coffee. Really, is it not enough that he was attacked? Not enough that the one relationship he has ever managed to have had been one of abuse and degradation? Now he has to be reminded of it every second of every day by his mind betraying him, by constant questions, constant harping, constant worried glances and well-meaning sympathy? Why him, why is it always _him?_

The ball of worry in his gut boils and expands and suddenly he is furious. He is furious with Pete, with Douglas, with Carolyn and Arthur and the doctors and none of it, absolutely none of it, can compare with how furious he is with himself. How could he have been so stupid as to get himself into that situation? All the signs had been there! But he had been so _needy_ , so desperate to be _liked_ that he had refused to see it, and then when it actually came to it he had been weak, he hadn't fought, had given up and let it happen. It was his fault, all his fault, if only he'd been cleverer or stronger or better...

He only realises that he has leapt to his feet and smashed his coffee mug on the table when he hears the smash. He is screaming at Douglas, everything that has been building up inside suddenly pouring out. Everything Pete had done, everything that had happened, all the things he can scarcely put into words are suddenly bursting out of him in a torrent of fury and pain.

As suddenly as it began, it is over. He feels wrung out and limp. He looks at his shaking hands, and sees blood; when he lifted the mug and smashed it, it had shattered into his palms. The sight of this, more than anything else, is the last straw and he crumples to his knees. He honestly wants nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry.

Then there is a strong hand taking his own, and a cool cloth gently begins cleaning the cuts and burns. He watches the movement blankly.

“Do you have any gauzes or plasters?” Douglas rumbles.

“Plasters. In the bathroom,” he mumbles.

Douglas gently lifts him to his feet and he is being steered to the bathroom. He finds himself sat on the closed lid of the toilet, and then plasters are being placed on the cuts and Douglas is grumbling quietly about not having proper supplies.

Martin feels like he is in a trance. Douglas steers him up to his attic where he collapses into bed. A few minutes later a cool glass of water and some painkillers are being placed in his hand, and he swallows both mindlessly. He curls in on himself on top of the duvet, closing his eyes.

“I don't know what to do,” he whispers.

“Hm?”

“I don't know how to fix this. I don't think I can. I thought I could come home and things would be normal and I would feel better, but it's got worse.”

Douglas is quiet for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Martin,” he begins slowly, “This isn't something that will be fixed easily. It won't be something you can fix on your own. I think... I think you should consider counselling.”

Martin goes tense at the very word. “I considered that,” he concedes, still with his eyes shut. “But do you have any idea what counselling _costs_ , Douglas? I could live for a month on one session. And the wait on the NHS is months and months. I don't... I can't...” He takes a shaky breath.

“Go to sleep,” Douglas suggests. “Think about it in the morning, all right?” Martin gives a shaky nod.

“And...” Douglas hesitates, something so uncharacteristic that Martin opens his eyes and twists to frown at him. “It's not your fault, Martin. It could never, ever be your fault. The fault is his, and only his.”

For the first time since that night, Martin begins to feel that that might be true.  
____________

Once Martin drops into an uneasy sleep, Douglas trudges downstairs to the shabby living room and slumps on the sofa, trying to process the new information whirling around his brain.

He had suspected that whatever was wrong with Martin had something to do with his boyfriend, especially since his reaction on the flight-deck earlier. But he had never expected... this.

He had seen Martin angry before, of course, and he had heard Martin shout. After all, he got a lot of amusement out of winding Martin up until he was red-faced and spluttering. This, though... this was different. Martin had just _snapped_ , going from quiet and fidgety to screaming almost immediately. He had leapt to his feet, smashing the mug against the table without even seeming to notice. He had screamed at Douglas, making short, violent movements with his arms that he quickly drew back, running his hands fitfully through his hair, his voice breaking, though he did not cry.

Martin's actions were nothing on Martin's _words_ though, and the memory of them makes Douglas' blood run cold. He had been ranting about Pete, about how much he hated him, and all he wanted was for someone to want him, but Pete had just used him up and then, and Douglas has to close his eyes as Martin's voice echoed in his head: _“He raped me, Douglas, he held me down and he just... he just took what he wanted and I couldn't stop him and it was my fault-”_ Douglas isn't sure which is worse: the confession, or that Martin believed himself to be at fault.

Eventually the rage dampened and Martin's legs seemed to give out. He had seemed strangely blank after that, sitting dumbly where he had fallen and letting Douglas clean the blood from his hands, then following meekly wherever Douglas led. He seemed to have exhausted himself by his outburst.

And now, sitting here in Martin's awful shared house, Douglas feels _furious_. Part of him wants to shake all of Pete's details out of Martin so he can march round there and break the man's face – just for starters. He wants to rip Pete limb from limb because, no matter how bloody _irritating_ Martin can be, nobody deserves this, and Martin is so unsure of himself, so awkward and desperate to please and the idea of someone doing... _that_ to him makes Douglas want to break something.

He knows he has to be calm. Running out and beating Pete to a senseless pulp will make him feel better in the short term, but it won't help Martin. He isn't sure how much help he can be to Martin in terms of emotional support – he isn't really built for that – but he can help practically. He forces himself to make a cup of tea, and then pulls out his iPhone, determined to track down a decent counsellor for rape victims.  
_____________

Douglas snatches a few hours of sleep on the sofa and wakes with a crick in his neck. His phone screen tells him that is is nearly eight-thirty, so he makes a cup of disgusting instant coffee and sits at the kitchen table to dial the Crisis Centre number he had found the previous night, after his search for counsellors turned up no promising results.

The woman who answers has a motherly voice, clearly used to being calm and unflappable. She listens to Douglas' explanation, clearly understanding all his suggestions and inferences (no doubt she has heard every one possible), and offers to give him the numbers of potential counsellors in the area. Douglas jots down the numbers, thanks the woman, and hangs up.

He is glad that Martin doesn't make an appearance as he makes the three calls. The first has no space at all, and is very apologetic. The second doesn't answer. The third, on the other hand, offers to see Martin just after lunch, to see whether he thinks that particular counsellor could help.

Douglas doesn't know if this is going to be a good idea; Martin hadn't seemed too enthused with the idea of counselling the previous night, but that had seemed to stem from his financial problems. If Douglas removes those problems by paying for it himself, then hopefully Martin will be at least open to the idea of getting some help.

Half an hour later, Martin appears. It is quite clear he has barely slept, with his blood-shot eyes and drawn features.

“You're still here,” he exclaims from the doorway, looking genuinely shocked.

“Clearly,” Douglas drawls. “Couldn't be arsed to drive back, and the sofa's not as bad as it seems. I've slept on worse – Gerti's fourth row, for example.”

Martin slumps down next to him, picking at invisible lint on his pyjama bottoms. “I'm... really sorry about last night. I shouldn't have yelled at you.”

“It's quite all right. You clearly needed to get it all off your chest.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose so... I've not really... I've been trying not to think about it. It's not been working.” A wry smile tips the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” Douglas begins slowly. “I actually had an idea...”  
_______________

They are in the car on the way to see the counsellor, and Martin is beginning to fidget. He had agreed more readily than Douglas had imagined, putting up only a token protest about money. But now, with the appointment an impending reality, he is clearly beginning to waver.

“Martin, for god's sake, sit still. You're like a damn rabbit.”

“I was a squirrel the other day. Do make up your mind about your wildlife similes.”

“You have a great talent for imitating nervous woodland creatures, which is hardly my fault. I just pick that which is most apt at the time.”

The address is a small terraced house on the edge of Fitton; Douglas presumes some counsellors prefer to work from home rather than in an impersonal office space. He feels another surge of protectiveness. “Will you be all right?”

“Course. Fine. Fine.” Martin looks frightened, but determined.

“Right. There's a café down the road, I'll wait there. Either come on down or text when you're done.”

Martin nods jerkily, and clambers from the car. The door is answered almost immediately, though Douglas can't see who opens it, and Martin doesn't look back.

Douglas sits in the café for what feels like hours, not really tasting his coffee but rather watching his phone for any sign of a text from Martin. The clock on the wall ticks by with interminable slowness, and the bored looking barista keeps on drumming her fingers against the counter. Douglas is the only customer.

After forty-five minutes he nips into the newsagents over the road to buy a paper, then returns to the café. He turns from page to page without really reading anything and finally throws the paper down in disgust.

It is over an hour and a half later when the door of the café swings open to admit Martin. He makes a beeline for Douglas, and sits down across from him. A small smile flits across his face, possibly the first genuine smile Douglas has seen in a while. He is still too pale, still drawn, still exhausted, but some of the tension is gone from his mouth and his shoulders. He looks as though a huge weight has been lifted from him.

Douglas quirks an eyebrow questioningly. Martin seems to think for a moment, before simply saying, “Thank you.”

_________________

Martin protests, but Douglas insists on handing him a cheque that will cover six weeks worth of counselling. Martin has no idea how Douglas can afford this: his salary isn't large, and with his child support payments and divorce settlement he is required to pay Helena, his financial situation is not as secure as he would like people to imagine. But still, he is better off than Martin, and Martin cannot deny he needs this help.

Over the following two weeks, Martin slowly seems to come out of his shell. He still occasionally stares off into the middle distance, looking lost, he still tends to jump at sudden noises, and once Arthur had grabbed his shoulder from behind, triggering a violently panicked reaction. Apart from all this, though, Martin feels more himself. He is sleeping rather better now he isn't having nightmares every single night, and slowly but surely his life isn't being ruled by what happened. He finds he can care about flying again for flying's sake, rather than as a distraction. He laughs at Arthur's ridiculous jokes, he snipes and bickers with Douglas, and loses their word games. Things are, slowly but surely, with only the occasional dip, returning to normal.

They fly a group of charity volunteers out to Cape Town where they stop over for the night. Douglas bets Martin the lobster that he can eat the most oysters at a delicious seafood restaurant. Arthur acts as the umpire whilst Carolyn looks on with disdain at the sight of her two pilots wolfing down oysters as fast as they can manage. Arthur is giggling helplessly after about two minutes and soon Martin is struggling with his oysters because he is laughing as well, and when he nearly chokes Arthur thumps him on the back so hard he swears his ribs crack.

“Well,” Douglas says in a self-satisfied tone. “I think I've won that one. Bad luck, Martin.”

Martin throws an empty oyster shell at him, and pushes the lobster towards the older man, unable to stop grinning.

That night, Martin wakes himself up from a nightmare. His sheets are twisted around his legs and he is sweating horribly, barely able to catch his breath. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and concentrates on controlling his breathing. His counsellor had explained about the nightmares, telling him that they were actually a good sign, showing that his mind was trying to process what had happened. Even knowing that, even knowing that they are happening less and less often, they are still a truly unpleasant experience. With a sigh, he flicks on the bedside lamp, glad that he isn't sharing a room, and picks up his book. He knows he should try and go back to sleep, but he has to calm his mind for a while first.

Sometimes he still feels very much like he did after his dad died: at first, he had been unable to stop thinking about it, measuring his life in hours and days since it had happened. Then, gradually, he had thought about it less and less, until he found he had gone hours without dwelling, then days. So it is with the rape; he is gradually absorbing it as a part of himself, something that will always be there but no longer has to affect every part of his life.

Of course, things aren't perfect, and they certainly aren't fixed for good. He supposes it is like a scab over a healing wound: chances are it could be ripped off and start the bleeding again. So it is one night on a stop-over in New York, a week after the Cape Town trip; he is out with Douglas and Arthur in a noisy bar. Douglas has been swept up in a group playing pool, so Martin and Arthur are at the bar chatting companionably. Martin has always got on well with Arthur, who could well be described as his closest friend, probably because Arthur doesn't see him as a boring stick-in-the-mud. After a few minutes they find themselves talking with a friendly New Yorker called Tom, who heard their accents and begins asking all sorts of questions about England.

Martin is feeling pleasantly fuzzy, and Tom is laughing over their stories about Mr Birling, complete with Arthur's uncanny impressions, and then it happens. Later, Martin will feel ashamed of his reaction, but at the time it was simple instinct. Arthur turns to the bar to order more drinks and Tom, friendly and easy-going in that very _American_ way of his, slings an arm around Martin's shoulders, pulling him close. The gesture is nothing beyond slightly tipsy affection, but logic has no say here and Martin's body goes into lock-down; his vision dims and suddenly it is not Tom's New York accent but Pete's mocking voice breathing hot in his ear and Pete's hands holding him and not letting go...

He shoves Tom away, hard, ignoring his exclamation of surprise, and staggers away needing to get out, needing to breathe. He reaches the street and leans heavily against the wall, realising he is horribly close to hyperventilating.

“Skip!” Arthur seems to materialise in front of him, a worried expression on his open face. “Skip, what happened, are you all right?”

“Give me a minute,” Martin mutters, already feeling the first stirrings of shame at his reaction. Arthur nods, still looking supremely concerned, and settles himself against the wall beside Martin, careful not to touch him. Martin closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, and eventually his heart rate settles.

“It wasn't anything really,” he says, addressing his remarks to his shoes. “He just... grabbed me. It shouldn't be enough to make me panic, but it clearly still is.”

“It's okay, Skip,” says Arthur earnestly. “I mean, he wasn't to know, but it makes sense that you hate people grabbing you, especially when you don't know them. It's fine.” He pauses. “Tell you what, I'll tell Douglas we're leaving, and then we could go to this amazing hot dog place I've heard about! We can't come to New York and not have hot dogs.”

Martin gives him a weak smile, and Arthur dashes off to inform Douglas of their new plan. Martin leans back against the wall and blows out all his breath at once. This is the first real stumbling block he's hit in a while, which he supposes shows his progress, but he feels as though he's undone most of his work in this one instant.

These negative thoughts slowly sink into the back of his mind, however, as he and Arthur tramp through the bustling New York streets, and then work their way through some truly delicious hot dogs, Arthur chattering away about whatever comes to his mind. Martin has rarely felt so grateful to anyone: Arthur just acts completely as normal, not treating Martin like he's made of spun glass, but not leaving him to deal with this alone. Instead, he is irrepressibly _there_ , filling up the space so that Martin's dark thoughts can do nothing but retreat in the face of his presence. 


	3. Hold On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is on the road to recovery, and there is a new arrival in his life.

Over the next few months Martin feels more and more himself. He finds he can look at himself in the mirror and just see _him_ , rather than someone who was raped. The nightmares dissipate almost entirely, and he can now deal with physical contact from strangers without panicking. All in all, it is good progress; he stopped seeing the counsellor a few weeks ago, although she pressed him to call should he need to talk. So far, he has managed to push through any darker moments himself.

Now they are coming out of winter, although April is proving blustery, chilly and wet, so there doesn't seem to be much difference. March had been a busy month for MJN, what with another Birling Day (which left Martin with his dignity battered but his pockets rather fuller) amongst other things, but now the jobs have dropped off. Luckily, Martin has managed to line up several van jobs during MJN's quiet period, and Mr Birling's tip paid for a new exhaust on his old van so, all things considered, things were looking up.

It is a horribly wet and windy day and he has a moving job, taking small pieces of furniture and boxes of belongings from near Maidenhead to some bloke's new flat just outside Fitton. By the time he gets from the van to the door he is soaked to the skin, his hair plastered flat on his head. The man lets him in, cursing the weather, “Really sorry, I hoped it was going to be all right today...” and he is herded into the kitchen.

“Do you want a cuppa before we get started?” the man asks, already filling the kettle, which seems to the be only thing not packed, along with a couple of mugs. “It's hideous out.”

“That would be great,” Martin concedes, looking around the tiny flat.

“I'm Daniel, by the way.” The man offers his hand, which Martin shakes as he introduces himself. Daniel has a kind face, with glasses and dark, wavy hair. He is solidly built, slightly taller than Martin himself, and his voice has a slight Edinburgh tilt to it. “You must absolutely hate moving in this weather.” He hands Martin a mug of tea and leans against the counter, sipping his own mug.

“Well, yes. Not my favourite. But I can't afford to be picky.” _Oh great, Martin, that's right, just start off looking like a pauper. Great stuff._

Daniel grins. “Who can, these days?”

“So what do you do?” There, that's safe territory. That question doesn't make him look like an idiot.

“I'm a lecturer at Reading Uni. English Lit.”

“Oh, wow!”

“Yeah, it's what I always wanted to do, to be honest. Well, the academia and research, not so much the teaching, though I like it now I do it. They've finally told me they're renewing my contract for next September, so I figured I could justify moving out of this dump.” He waves a hand around the small flat, which Martin privately feels he'd be ecstatic to live in. “I lived with my partner for years, but when he ran off to work in Canada I couldn't afford to keep the place, so I've been here for a while-” Daniel suddenly cuts himself off, clapping a hand to his mouth. “Shit! Sorry, you don't want to hear all that. Shut up, Daniel, shut up.”

Martin has to grin at this, because he knows full well what it's like to have his mouth run away with him. “It's fine, don't worry about it.” He is feeling much warmer with the tea, and definitely dryer considering the way his hair is beginning to curl.

“So, how are things?” Daniel asks. “I mean, removals and things. Bloody hell, you don't have to answer that, I'm just making conversation, tell me to stuff it if you like-”

“It's not too bad. I only do this part time, really. I'm a pilot.”

“A _pilot?_ Like, aeroplanes? Well, obviously aeroplanes, I suppose.”

“Yes. For a charter company. It's brilliant, really amazing, but it's a bit hit-and-miss, money-wise.” _White lies never hurt_. “Hence the delivery.”

“That sounds fantastic,” says Daniel, looking genuinely impressed. “I got flummoxed when my TV had more than one remote, I'd have no idea what to do when faced with an aeroplane control panel.”

“It's fine once you get used to it,” says Martin. “Like driving a car.”

“Well that settles it,” Daniel laughs. “I'm shit at that as well.”  
__________

Daniel is one of those rare people to hire Martin: he treats him like a person rather than a pack horse. Between them they get the van loaded up with Daniel's belongings – most of the furniture was rented with the flat, but how on earth does one man own so many books? – and Daniel follows in his car to Fitton.

The new flat is much more spacious, though distinctly lacking in most furnishings. Once they have deposited the boxes and what remains of Daniel's belongings, the flat still looks very empty.

“I'll treat myself to a bed and stuff at Ikea tomorrow. I'll rough it for tonight.” Daniel is burrowing through a box, and pulls out the kettle with a sound of triumph. “Care to warm the flat with me? Or do you have to get back?”

“No, no, a tea would be lovely.” Martin feels very grotty from all the lifting and carrying, and his hair is doing something truly alarming, but there is something very pleasant about Daniel's company. He is very easy to talk to, and Martin wishes he had more jobs from people like Daniel.

They sit on the floor in the living room, though Daniel makes them move a few times to decide where his sofa should go (“Look, when the new series of _Doctor Who_ starts, everything needs to be in its optimal position.”) and drink tea with a packet of rather stale rich tea biscuits that were on the top of a box. Daniel tells him about some of his more _interesting_ students, and Martin responds with tales of Arthur's culinary adventures. 'Fizzy yoghurt' makes Daniel snort tea out of his nose and Martin has to pat him on the back to save him.

Once the mugs are washed up, Martin pulls on his jacket to leave. Daniel presses the money into his hands (more than Martin charged, but he refuses to take any back), and then hesitates. “Look, tell me to bugger off if you like, but I'm new to this area and I don't really know anyone. I just wondered if you fancied getting a takeaway one night, or getting a pint somewhere? It's fine if you don't, I just enjoyed today and I never thought I'd enjoy moving.” He looks sincere and earnest, and Martin has enjoyed today as well, enjoyed it tremendously, and before he can even think about it he has agreed. Daniel grins and puts his number in Martin's phone.

It is only as he drives home that Martin wonders what it is that he has agreed to. His good mood dims slightly as butterflies squirm in his stomach.  
__________

“Evening!” Daniel is smiling broadly as he opens the door.

“Hullo,” says Martin, feeling nervous. Daniel doesn't seem to notice as he leads Martin through the flat, telling him to hang his jacket in the hall.

The flat is much less empty now, with a sofa against one wall, with a coffee table in the middle and a television in the corner. Daniel's books are all stacked neatly on shelves, and Martin feels strangely relieved when he notices they are all in alphabetical order by the author's last name. It always reassures him to know that other people are anal about things.

“Much better don't you think?” Daniel comments from the small kitchen leading off from the living room.

“Definitely. It looks like you live here now.”

“Once I got the books out I felt better. That makes the place homely.” Daniel holds up a bottle of red wine questioningly. “Want some?”

“Yes please,” Martin takes the proffered glass. “My books are one of the few things I own I'd never part with. I have nowhere near as many as you, though.”

“Ah, to be fair, I teach English Literature,” Daniel smiles, leading them over to the sofa. “If I'm totally honest, though, I've not read all of them by a wide margin. They just look impressive, you know?”

“Ah, you've ruined the illusion!”

Daniel laughs. “Ah damn, that was smooth of me. Anyway, moving rapidly on before I can paint myself in a worse light, what's your takeaway of choice? I have pizza, Chinese or curry.”

“The pizza round here is dire, but the curry house and the Chinese are nice.”

“Hm, okay. I'll take an executive decision on curry then, if that's all right. I had a craving for lamb bhuna just the other day.”

_____________

 _Stop feeling nervous_ , Martin tells himself firmly as Daniel goes to the door for the food. _This isn't a date, this is friends. You have nothing to worry about._

He hates that he feels so worried. He has been doing so well! And Daniel is nothing like Pete. Still, Martin couldn't help himself from tensing horribly when their thighs brushed from where they sat side by side. He hopes Daniel hadn't noticed.

Daniel is very easy to talk to, and even though Martin frequently stammers or stumbles over his words he doesn't seem to mind. They talk about their respective jobs – Martin tells the story about the Scottish cricket team and the fire truck, which goes down very well – and books, discovering a mutual appreciation for crime writing, and John le Carré spy novels.

“Of course, I'm supposed to appreciate 'The Canon' above all else-” here Daniel makes air quotes with his fingers, “But to be honest I'll take Poirot over bloody _Anna Karenina_ any day.”

“I tried to read that,” Martin says, cleaning his plate with a piece of naan. “But I got so confused by the fact that everyone had about six names, and I lost track of the characters.”

“Well, Anna Karenina doesn't show up for ages. Then there's a horse race. And then she kills herself. The end.”

“Is that how you teach? Because I'm not sure I could write you an essay based on that.”

Daniel laughs. “I'm fairly sure some of my students _have_ written essays based on that.”

Once the takeaway is cleared up (and Martin again is happy to see that Daniel hates leaving dirty dishes out, just as he does) and more wine has been poured, they settle again on the sofa.

“So,” Daniel begins, his voice taking on the significant tone of someone trying to be casual. “You have a girlfriend, Martin?”

Martin's stomach drops through the floor, but he tries to gather himself. “No, no, not got a girlfriend. No.”

“Ah. Er... boyfriend?”

“Not... not any more. He wasn't much of a boyfriend, either.” _Please don't ask, please don't ask, please, please, please..._

Daniel clearly recognises Martin's discomfort, because he simply nods. “Okay. Good. I mean, not good because of that, obviously, but just... yeah. Sorry.” Martin glances at him, and sees he has gone rather pink. “Jesus. I'm sorry, I've made a proper hash of that. Ignore me.”

“Daniel-” Martin feels as though he should say something, but his stomach is twisted in knots and his throat feels tight and he is clearly not as well as he thought because here he is being awkwardly flirted with by a very lovely and rather handsome man and it makes him feel sick to his very bones. He clears his throat, tries to explain. “It's not that... I mean, you're brilliant-” God, he sounds like Arthur. “But when I say he wasn't much of a boyfriend... I just.... I can't. Not right now.”

Daniel is staring at him wide-eyed and _fuck_ has he just entirely misread this and made a complete fool of himself? “Oh god!” he whispers, mortified. “You didn't mean that at all, did you? Oh, _damn.”_

“No!” Daniel exclaims. “God, we're a right pair. No, that is what I meant, exactly. That was me trying to ask you out properly. I know, I'm terrible at it. But I understand, of course I do. No hard feelings.” He frowns, bites his lip. “I know this isn't really my place, but are you all right?”

“I'm... better. Than I was. It's just a bit soon, still.”

“Fine. That's fine. Thank you. You know, for telling me.”

They smile awkwardly at one another, and Martin realises with another horrible twist to the stomach that Daniel has a very lovely smile. Daniel swiftly refills their glasses and moves the conversation onto movies, and they spend a pleasant half an hour debating over which is the best Hitchcock film.  
___________

The next day Martin can't stop thinking about Daniel. The other man genuinely seems to _like_ him, which is completely outside of Martin's realm of experience. He listens to (even enjoys) his flying stories, and he is interesting and funny, and he can even get Martin to talk about things other than planes, which even he acknowledges is something of a miracle. And all in one evening!

He is also, and Martin eventually gives up trying to deny it to himself, attractive, with his kind face and warm brown eyes and broad smile. The idea of a relationship with someone like Daniel, someone genuine and kind, is appealing on so many levels. The fact is, and he cannot get away from this, is that the idea of having sex with someone, anyone, makes him want to be sick. He isn't sure he can even stomach hugs or kissing, let alone anything more intimate. It just isn't fair to try for a relationship with someone when he is in that position. Not fair to Daniel, and not fair to himself.

Still, he hopes they can stay friends, if nothing else.

___________

By evening, however, his thoughts have chased themselves back around the circle. He has resigned himself to the fact that after one day and one evening in Daniel's company he is hopelessly attracted to him. On one level he is glad that he is still capable of attraction; at least he isn't completely broken in that regard. He keeps thinking about all the non-physical sides of a relationship: having someone at home, someone to talk to and laugh with and go out with... he wants that so much it causes a physical ache in his chest. He has been on his own for so long that he no longer realises how lonely he is, but it's been brought home to him now.

He knows it's a bad idea, knows it's going to end in tears and anger and he's opening himself up to a world of hurt, but he has to try. Before he can lose his nerve he pulls out his mobile and calls Daniel.

“Hello?” Christ, even his Scottish accent is unbearably attractive right now.

“Daniel, it's Martin.”

“Oh! Hello, how are things?”

“Not bad. How are you?”

“Ah, I'm fine. Buried under a pile of marking at the moment. What's up?”

“I, er... oh God. I've been thinking, pretty much non-stop, about what you were saying yesterday.”

“You've decided that _The 39 Steps_ is superior to _Rear Window?_ ” Daniel's voice goes a little strange, as though he is making himself talk normally.

“What? No! Obviously not. No, about... you know, boyfriends and things...” he trails off, unsure how to continue.

“Right.” Daniel pauses for a moment. “Martin, are you saying we could... try?”

“Er. Yes. Yes, I think so. I mean, what I said yesterday still stands, so if you don't want to I'll understand because God I'm not going to be an easy person to go out with but I've been thinking about you all day and-”

“All day?” Daniel interrupts. “Really? It's a good thing you can't see how red I've just gone. But listen, Martin. I don't know what happened, but I can tell it wasn't good. I'm not expecting anything, you know. If it doesn't work, then it doesn't work. You're not signing up to anything, we'll just... see how it goes.”

“Yes,” Martin says, voice strangely hoarse, his heart pounding in his ears and a curious mixture of terror and joy twisting through him. “Yes, good. That's... good.”

“Listen, why don't you come over tomorrow night? I'll cook. I'm a good cook, I promise. We can watch a film or something.”

“That sounds brilliant.” Martin thinks his voice sounds like it's coming from somewhere very far away. Parts of his brain are leaping about in celebration, both at successfully getting a date and at overcoming this seemingly insurmountable barrier, whereas other parts are warning about inevitable doom and gloom. When he puts the phone down he has no idea what to do with himself, unable to settle to anything so he eventually takes himself off to bed, where he lies awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.  
_______________

“You,” Douglas begins, “Are looking _happy._ ”

Martin sits back in his seat, glancing sidelong at the First Officer. “There's no need to sound so suspicious.”

“On the contrary, I have every reason to be suspicious. I have never seen you so... contented. It is positively Arthur-ish.”

“I doubt it's quite that bad,” Martin counters, still with an uncharacteristically airy tone. “I have yet to break into song, after all.”

“Ah, small mercies.”

The radio crackles into life. “ _Golf Tango India, you are cleared for take-off. Please proceed to your runway_.”

Douglas finishes relaying with the Tower and they taxi to their runway. Once airborne, he glances again at the disturbingly relaxed captain.

“All right, out with it. You have a daft grin on your face the likes of which have rarely been seen in the common or garden Martin.”

“I just had a good couple of days! What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I'm very glad for you. Except my suspicions are increasingly aroused by you being happy about something that isn't flying.”

“Hullo chaps!” Martin is saved replying by the typically exuberant entrance of Arthur, who appears to be bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Anything going on at this end?”

“Oh, the usual. Flying the plane, trying to find out why Martin had a good few days...”

“Aw, that's great, Skip! Did you have pancakes?”

“I – what?” Martin frowns, although he is by now used to Arthur's frequent non-sequiturs.

“I had a great day yesterday, cause Mum and I had pancakes for breakfast! With maple syrup and lemon and sugar and jam and chocolate spread and bananas!”

“Not all together, I hope,” remarks Martin. Arthur looks horribly thoughtful.

“Mum didn't put them together, no. So... not pancakes, then?”

“No, Arthur, not pancakes.”

“Oh. Well, I don't know then.”

Douglas rolls his eyes. “Arthur, are you really saying that you can't imagine any other reason for Martin to be in a good mood?”

“Well, pancakes are a good reason!”

“Ye-es, but they aren't the only reason.” Douglas turns from Arthur to fix Martin with a stern look. “Come on, out with it. Or I'll get Carolyn on the case.”

“No, you won't!”

“Oh, won't I?” With a smirk, Douglas reaches for the intercom. “Carolyn? The pointy end here. We have a mystery.”

“A mystery? If it's to do with the food--”

“No, it's not-- although I am now intrigued by that as well.”

“Carolyn, ignore Douglas, please!”

“Ah, Martin, it's good to hear your dulcet tones. I take it this mystery is something to do with the ridiculous grin that was on your face this morning?”

Martin groans as Douglas cackles, pleased to have Carolyn onside. Within moments he is being fixed with the knife-like gazes of both Douglas and Carolyn, who has bustled to the flight-deck at the smallest hint of fun. Arthur's attempt at a similar stare leaves a great deal to be desired. Martin scrubs his face with his hands, resigning himself to an interrogation.

“Oh for- I'm seeing someone, all right! Happy now?”

Instead of crowing at their victory, Douglas and Carolyn exchange worried looks, and Arthur bites his lip. Martin feels rather angry at this. “Oh, you don't need to look like that! I am _allowed_ to see other people, you know. I'm not _broken_. I did actually learn my lesson about dating wankers.”

They look shocked. “He was rather more than a wanker,” Douglas points out. Martin glares.

“We just want you to be all right, Martin,” says Carolyn in a concerned voice. Martin wishes, to his surprise, that they would make fun of him instead. “I mean, it's not been that long, really. Are you ready for this?”

“Oh, it's not been that long? Really? I had completely lost track of the time. It's not as though it's affected everything I've ever done since then, after all.” He carefully doesn't look at their worried expressions. “No one has ever, ever wanted a relationship with me, all right? And now there's someone who _does_ , and I absolutely will not let this chance go because I'm scared. I need to take this step sometime and I'm doing it now, and if all you can do is patronise me then you can keep it.”

He's being unfair. He knows he's being unfair, but he doesn't care. Six months ago Douglas would have been _insufferable_ on hearing that Martin was seeing someone, but instead they're making Martin feel like a victim again, something he has been trying very hard not to be. There is silence for a few moments, then Arthur mumbles something about putting the kettle on and scurries from the flight-deck.

“What's his name?” Carolyn asks, her voice normal again.

“Daniel. He's a lecturer at Reading.”

“Ooh, a professor?” says Douglas. “Very intellectual.”

“A doctor, actually.”

Douglas smirks. “Not a medical doctor? I presume you won't be making _that_ mistake again.”

“Oh, hah bloody hah...”  
___________________

The previous night, some of Martin's nerves about trying to start a relationship began to fade. Daniel was just the same as he had been before; he hadn't even tried to touch Martin, a fact for which he was extremely grateful. He had made some truly delicious carbonara (“With all the proper ingredients – I can be a bit of a food snob, I'm afraid.” Martin had conveniently not mentioned what he tended to live on) which they had eaten whilst chatting easily. Martin continued to be surprised by how very _easy_ Daniel was to talk to, considering he found it awkward talking to _anyone._

After they had washed up from dinner – Martin has insisted on helping, despite Daniel pointing out that Martin was his date – they drank coffee on the sofa whilst watching _Vertigo_ , which had come into both of their top three Hitchcock films. It had been so comfortable curled on a sofa next to Daniel, close enough to feel his warmth but not quite touching. _This_ was what Martin wanted: nothing fancy, nothing overly-romantic, just someone to be with whilst watching old movies. He wished he had had the guts to touch Daniel, even just to sit pressed against him, but he was worried about leading Daniel on, about giving the impression he was all right with more than he was. Still, Daniel hadn't seemed to mind.

Martin had left just after midnight. He had felt awkward in the hallway, because surely leaving should necessitate _something_ but he had no idea what. Daniel came to his rescue – he simply leaned forwards and pressed a gentle kiss to Martin's cheek before pulling back with a shy smile. “We can do this again?” he asked.

Martin nodded dumbly, and Daniel grinned. Martin had driven back home feeling more light-hearted than he had done in months, frequently raising his hand to touch the place on his cheek where Daniel had kissed him.  
_________________

The Leknes airfield is wet, and cold, and generally utterly miserable. It seems, however, that even this can do little to dampen Martin's spirits.

They are waiting in a cramped airfield café that mercifully has the benefits of being warm and containing hot drinks. Douglas and Martin have squeezed into a sticky table in the corner, their knees pressed together uncomfortably, and are waiting for Carolyn and Arthur to appear so they can head to the hotel. Martin is ignoring his coffee in favour of tapping away at his phone, a slight smile crooking his mouth.

“Will you be back to normal soon?” Douglas inquires.

“Hm, what?”

“Back to normal. I don't know if I can cope with this being a permanent change. You're far less... neurotic. It's no fun.”

“I apologise for not placing your amusement at the top of my priority list.”

“Ooh, sarcasm. Careful, Martin, I hear it's catching.” Martin decides not to dignify this with a response, though he privately feels pleased that the teasing is back. “Who are you texting?”

“Daniel. He wanted to know when we landed.”

“That's... rather sweet, actually.”

Martin glances up, pale eyes narrowed. “Yes, it is,” he says, slightly defensively, clearly uncertain as to whether Douglas is joking.

“Ah, here you are! I might have known you'd scurry away to find the nearest caffeine supply.” Carolyn's arrival is heralded by her typical insults, swiftly followed by Arthur's exclamation of, “Wow! Hot chocolate and whipped cream!”

“Ah, if it isn't our fearless leader,” Douglas drawls, somehow managing to look as though he is lounging in the cramped chair.

“Yes, it is,” agrees Carolyn. “And she demands that her lazy, lazy pilots get up and come along to the taxi. Chop chop!” She punctuates these last two words with twin taps on the head for Martin and Douglas with the end of her flowery umbrella, still damp from the rain outside.

“That hurt!” Martin exclaims as he trails after her into the freezing outdoors.

“Oh don't be silly, Martin. Your ludicrous hair should cushion the blow.” Martin scowls, and his hand comes up automatically to run through his ginger curls.

The hotel is slightly less dire than usual, although still not up to the standard that could be called “decent”. Douglas declares it “Barely Habitable”, and promptly adds it to the list he had begun to keep on his mobile. The list so far ranges from, “We Will Almost Certainly Die Here” to “If You Close Your Eyes and Think Really Hard, You Can Imagine It's All Right”. There are three hotels at the bottom end of the list. One is at the top.

There are three rooms: two singles and one twin. There is never any question about Carolyn sharing, so it is up to Martin and Douglas to duke it out over who will share with the overly-enthusiastic Arthur and his hideous snoring. Naturally the coin toss is won by Douglas.

As Arthur is testing the bounciness of his bed (“Not as good as my bed at home!”) and Martin is in the bathroom changing out of his uniform, Douglas barges his way into their room and promptly flops down on Martin's bed.

“Apparently the hotel restaurant is _closed for refurbishment_. So we're going to have to head out to fend for ourselves.”

“Aw, great! Can we get reindeer?”

“Reindeer?”

“Yeah! People in Norway eat reindeer and seal and penguin and things! I want to try!”

Martin reappears barefoot from the bathroom, buttoning up his shirt. “You know, I _think_ it's mould under the sink, but I'm sure mould isn't meant to be burgundy in colour... Douglas, get off my bed.”

“Absolutely not, you aren't using it.”

Martin rolls his eyes and gives one of Douglas' overhanging legs a prod with his foot. “Well, you're going to have to move, aren't you, if we're going to find Arthur a reindeer-and-grated-penguin burger.”

“Do they really _grate_ penguins, Skip?” asks Arthur, stopping bouncing to stare at them open-mouthed.

“Yes, Arthur, they do,” Douglas drawls, eyes closed and still refusing to move.

“ _Wow!”  
_________________

Martin is back home the following evening when suddenly there is a yell from one of the students downstairs. “Oi, Martin! One of your mates is here!”

“'One of my mates'?” he repeats from the top of the stairs.

“Mate, I'm as surprised as you.”

“Get lost, Will.”

His 'mate' turns out to be Douglas, who is holding Martin's flight bag. “You left this. I thought you might need it.”

“Oh, right! Yes, yes, thanks.” He takes the bag from Douglas, then hesitates. “You want a drink or anything? Don't worry, it's pretty tidy.”

Douglas nods and follows him through to the kitchen, where Will and Rob are cooking a huge saucepan of pasta. They nod at Douglas as he comes in.

“Hey, Marty, we're all out tonight,” says Rob over his shoulder. Martin has never been able to get him out of the habit of calling him 'Marty'. He sees Douglas' eyes gleam. “Real ale festival at the union.”

“Whoo, real ale!” whoops Will from beside him.

“Okay,” Martin replies, flicking on the kettle. “So I can expect to be woken at some godawful hour, is that right?”

“Ah, university memories,” rumbles Douglas, smirking. “I'm glad that real ale festivals are still going strong.”

The students head out half an hour later, after Will and Rob have practically inhaled their pasta (“Stomach lining!” Will exclaims, slapping his belly. Martin wonders whether he should dig out his earplugs.), and leave Douglas and Martin alone.

“Fancy a takeaway?” Martin asks. “Or do you have to get back?”

“A takeaway would be good,” says Douglas agreeably. “You're not seeing Daniel tonight?”

“No, he's got an alarming amount of essays to mark.”

It's not long ago, Martin reflects, that he and Douglas would never have been friends to the extent that they would spend time together out of work. But it feels strangely natural to be sitting with him eating beef in black bean sauce and trying to name all American states in alphabetical order.

A few hours later, a key rattles in the lock. Martin frowns: it isn't even eleven at night. The students couldn't be back this early.

“Oi!” comes a voice from the hall. A frighteningly familiar voice. Martin freezes, his body locking in place as his mind descends immediately into a frantic spiral of _no no no no no no no..._ “I know you're here you fuckin' bitch!” comes the snarling voice again. There is the sound of heavy, stumbling footsteps. He is clearly drunk. Martin's flight instinct kicks in, scrambling out of his chair and desperately searching for an escape route, but the kitchen leads straight into the hall and _oh god no._

Douglas stands up. Martin thought he had seen Douglas angry before, but it is clear that he hasn't, not until now: his face is eerily calm, his eyes hard as flint. The hand he places on Martin's shoulder is steady.

Pete appears in the doorway. His eyes are bloodshot and his jaw grazed with stubble. His face twists into an ugly grin on seeing Martin. “Ah hah, there you are, pet.” Martin's gorge rises at the sight of this man, at the sound of his voice, and he is powerless to stop the rush of memories. Pete's eyes flick to Douglas. “I see you've replaced me already. Fuckin' slut.” He lurches into the room and then stops as Douglas moves forwards.

“I rather think you should leave,” Douglas growls, his voice low and dangerous. “Before I call the police to report a break-in.”

“Break-in?” Pete sneers, stepping right into Douglas' personal space. Douglas doesn't flinch. “I just let myself in with my keys!” he jangles Martin's keys in Douglas' face.

“Well, I think we could still interest the police in threatening behaviour, sexual assault and rape, don't you?” Douglas doesn't move, doesn't raise his voice. Pete laughs, mockingly.

“Oh, is _that_ what you've told him, you little bitch?” He fixes Martin with his eyes and Martin can't hold his gaze. He is shaking and frightened and hot shame is coiling in his gut. “Now you listen, old man,” he turns to Douglas. “He _liked_ it. Always came running when I called, always did what he was told like a good boy. This is nothing to do with you- I'm just here to get what's mine.” He moves to step around Douglas, towards Martin, but is stopped by Douglas' hand on his chest.

“I would think very, _very_ hard about this,” Douglas growls.

“Oh, I have.” Pete's smile is predatory again, he shoves Douglas' arm away and strides towards Martin but before Martin can even think to react Douglas has seized Pete's shoulder, spun him around, and punched him solidly in the face.

Pete stumbles back, cursing, clutching his newly-bloody nose. “You fucking bastard!” he all but screams at Douglas. “I'll do you for assault!”

“I would like to see you try,” Douglas says calmly, wiping his hand on his jacket. “Get the hell out. Now. And if I hear you've even _looked_ at Martin again, I will personally see to it that you are very, very sorry indeed.” He seizes Pete's jacket by the shoulder and hauls him away. As they leave the kitchen, Pete manages to turn to look at Martin.

“Fuckin' bitch,” he spits, before Douglas shoves him bodily down the hallway. Martin sinks shakily into a chair, unable to process what has just happened.

Moments later, Douglas is back casually brushing his palms together. “What a nasty piece of work,” he comments. He places Martin's keys on the table in front of him. “Are you all right?”

“I'm... not sure.” Martin's voice is shaky.

“A cup of tea, I think,” says Douglas firmly. “Cure for all ills.”

“Douglas-” Martin begins. Douglas turns to regard him carefully. “Thank you,” he says helplessly. “So much. If you hadn't been here-”

“Don't think about that,” Douglas says in a stern voice. “I _was_ here, and that's what matters.”  
_________________

After a cup of overly sweetened tea, Douglas insists on Martin spending the night at his flat. Martin is far too shaken to even consider arguing, and instead throws some spare clothes into his flight bag and clambers into the passenger seat of Douglas' Lexus.

Douglas' flat is spacious, with leather sofas and wooden floors, and the spare room is comfortable (if rather flowery- it is clearly where Miranda sleeps when she stays). Martin, however, cannot sleep. He is tense and jumpy, almost giving himself a heart attack when a branch taps against the window. He cannot help but dwell on what would have happened had Douglas not been there tonight, how he had only been saved by chance. He is under no illusions: had he been alone, he would have been completely incapable of defending himself against Pete. The idea makes his heart clench, and he curls tightly in on himself under the duvet.

At about three in the morning he gives up sleep as a bad job and decides to get up. Douglas had told him to make himself at home, and he knows from experience that lying awake and fretting doesn't help. As he shuffles out of the bedroom, he notices that the living room light is on.

Douglas is awake as well, sitting on the sofa wearing a navy dressing gown and slippers. He glances up when Martin appears, and smiles faintly. “I suppose you couldn't sleep either.”

“Not a wink,” mutters Martin, throwing himself down next to him. “What are you watching?”

“A truly shocking Western. It was this or endless reruns of _Top Gear.”_

“Oh god. I think I'll take nightmares over Clarkson.”

Douglas chuckles. “Horrific Western it is, then.”

Martin wakes up to blinding sunlight coming through the living room window. Clearly he had nodded off at some point, and not in the most comfortable position judging by the twinge in his neck. As he shifts, a burgundy blanket falls from his shoulders; clearly Douglas had covered him up when he'd dropped off.

“Ah, good morning, _mon capitain_.” Douglas appears in the doorway holding two mugs. “Coffee? I'm doing scrambled eggs if you want some.”

Douglas watches Martin with worried eyes over the breakfast table as the younger man makes short work of his scrambled egg on toast. “What are you going to do today?” he asks, managing to convey several questions at once.

Martin swallows and takes a sip of coffee before replying. “I think I'll call Daniel, see if I can see him today. Much better than being on my own after... last night.” Douglas nods.

After a shower and a shave, he heads for Daniel's flat, glad that it is in walking distance of Douglas'. Douglas hadn't been impressed by the idea of him walking, but Martin insists he needs air, and that he's perfectly fine to walk for a few minutes.

Daniel lets him in looking worried. “Martin, are you all right? You don't look well-” and Martin is suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of relief and affection for this man who is not Pete, could never be Pete. He has not known Daniel long, but he already knows he would never, _ever_ talk to him the way Pete had, would never treat him that way, that he is safe and good... he can do nothing but step forward, wrap his arms around Daniel and bury his face in a broad shoulder.

“Hey,” says Daniel, sounding surprised and concerned, his arms coming up to hold Martin close. “Hey, what's up? It's okay, you're okay...” Martin says nothing, just tightens his grip and presses his nose into the warm space between Daniel's shoulder and neck, breathing him in. Daniel's arms are strong and yet gentle, one hand carefully stroking his hair.

Finally, Martin takes a deep breath and pulls away. Daniel lets him go, though he keeps one hand resting on Martin's upper arm. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, frowning. Martin bites his lip.

“Not... not yet. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is! Come and sit down, I've just got a couple of e-mails to send and then I'm all yours.”

Daniel balances his laptop on his knees where he sits on the sofa, and Martin tucks in beside him. He hesitates for only a moment before resting his head on Daniel's shoulder, smiling as the other man's cheek leans into his hair. “You're very affectionate today,” Daniel murmurs.

“I'm working on it,” Martin replies.

The day passes pleasantly, even with the spectre of Pete in the back of Martin's head. He wishes there were some way to explain all of this to Daniel without actually having to say any of it, but he has no idea how to start. The hug in the hallway seems to have broken through a barrier for Martin, though, so when they are out for a walk in the park and Daniel deliberately brushes their hands together, he feels only a twinge of nerves as he slips his fingers through the gaps of Daniel's. Daniel looks at their joined hands, then at Martin, and he _beams_ , and Martin feels for a moment that he would do anything to make Daniel look that happy again. He smiles back.

They stop for coffee and sandwiches at a café near the park before wandering home again. There, Daniel jumps on Martin's confession that he hasn't seen any of the rebooted _Doctor Who_ and their afternoon is one of Christopher Ecclestone and Billie Piper and monsters and space and Martin spends it nestled against Daniel's side, with an arm wrapped securely around his shoulders.

After a dinner of stir fry, they stand shoulder-to-shoulder doing the washing up in companionable quiet. As Daniel is drying his hands, Martin edges into Daniel's personal space, wanting more but with absolutely no idea how to go about it. Luckily, Daniel seems to understand: he steps closer, cupping Martin's face with gentle hands and, giving him plenty of time to pull back, leans forward and presses their lips together.

Martin's heart stutters and then seems to swell in his chest. _This_ is what kissing is supposed to be. He leans into Daniel, wrapping his arms around him, and tries to catalogue every moment. Daniel is kissing him slowly, never pressing forwards for anything more than a soft, gentle brush of mouths. Martin felt that he could have kissed for hours, but then that treacherous voice in his head starts up, telling him that he's going too fast, that soon Daniel will push for more... he makes to draw back, and Daniel releases him immediately.

“Daniel,” he murmurs, unsure what to do now. Daniel is slightly flushed and he doesn't look disappointed or frustrated. Rather, he is looking at Martin as though he is the most wonderful thing he has ever seen.

“All right?” he asks quietly, and Martin nods.

“I'm... fantastic,” he says quietly, feeling rather shell-shocked. “I've never... kissed anyone like that before.”

Daniel frowns then, one hand coming back up to rest a hand against Martin's cheek, thumb brushing tenderly against the bottom of his eye. “Martin,” he hesitates. Martin holds his breath, thinking he knows what's coming. “Martin, your last boyfriend... did he- did he abuse you?”

Martin closes his eyes. Nods slightly. Daniel whispers, “Oh God,” and then he is pulled against the other man. He goes willingly, leaning into Daniel's chest; Daniel strokes his hair, presses his lips against his temple. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs. “I'm so sorry that happened.”

“It's okay,” says Martin, his voice slightly muffled. “Well, it's not, but its getting better. Really.” He pulls away to look at Daniel, trying to convince him.

Daniel leads him over to the sofa, tugs him down onto it. With Daniel leaning against the back of the sofa, Martin leans against him.

“That's why I was scared about starting a relationship,” he begins. “I mean, I'd never been in a relationship before... before him.” At this confession, Daniel's arms tighten around him and he makes an angry little noise. “It went... very badly. It ended about six months ago now, but yesterday he... was drunk, and he came to my house... luckily my friend Douglas was there, otherwise-” he breaks off.

Daniel is silent. Eventually, Martin twists round to look at him, unsure about what his reaction will be. What if Daniel decides now that this is too much to deal with, so early in a relationship? What if he decides Martin isn't worth it? He steels himself.

Daniel's face is set in hard lines, and Martin _knows_ he is going to be asked to leave. He begins to detach himself, mumbling, “Sorry. I'm sorry, it's too much, I'll just-” but Daniel catches his arm.

“Don't go!” he exclaims. “God, Martin, _please_. I'm just... I'm so _angry._ You should never, ever have had to go through that. Ever.” His face is earnest. “I swear, I will never ask you for anything you don't want to give. If all you want is to cuddle and kiss then that's fine. I mean it, Martin. Anything. Don't go.”

Martin cannot speak. He feels completely overwhelmed. He leans up, wraps his arms around Daniel's neck, and tentatively presses a kiss to his lips. Daniel responds enthusiastically, pulling him close and sinking his hands into his hair. They kiss deeply, and Martin trusts Daniel to take control, to show him what to do; Daniel nibbles along his upper lip and then runs his tongue gently over the lower, not pushing, just exploring. Martin tries to mirror his movement, sucking on Daniel's plump lower lip, nervously touching the tips of their tongues together.

For long, blissful minutes they stay tangled on the sofa, and by the time they break apart, flushed and breathing hard, Martin can scarcely believe that it was yesterday evening that he was petrified in his kitchen, waiting for a new nightmare to start.  
_______________________

Martin spends a great deal of time at Daniel's over the next few weeks. Whenever he's not flying, or out with the van, and when Daniel is not at university, he escapes his house for Daniel's flat. He doesn't stay the night- he thinks about asking, but always loses his nerve, kissing him goodbye and heading back home. They watch _Doctor Who_ and old movies or go for walks or just sit on the sofa and talk. For the first time in far too long Martin feels that he can say he is truly happy.

They spend a lot of time kissing, indulging in long sessions of truly wonderful snogging. Martin's confidence with kissing has grown and grown; he kisses Daniel with everything he has, pressing as close as is physically possible. He doesn't dare do more, though; if there is any hint of things progressing he still feels nervous and skittish, but Daniel always senses this and lets him pull away without a murmur of protest.

Martin, however, is growing more frustrated with himself. He _wants_ more, he just doesn't dare. He can always feel panic sitting just behind the slow burn of arousal, and he is terrified of triggering a panic attack, of pushing Daniel away. Eventually, after yet another night of lying in bed, stroking himself and imagining Daniel's mouth, Daniel's hands, Daniel's voice, he makes a decision.

The following evening they are sat on the sofa watching a rather terrible film. Martin's head is on Daniel's shoulder, his legs lying over Daniel's. Martin turns his head slightly, nuzzles against the hinge of Daniel's jaw; Daniel understands, shutting off the TV then twisting around so he can cup Martin's face in his hands and kiss him, coaxing his mouth open with touches of his tongue. He leans backwards, awkwardly trying to shift their positions without breaking the kiss, so they are lying on the sofa with Martin half on top of him.

Timidly, Martin shifts the hand lying on Daniel's chest and begins to fiddle with the buttons of his shirt, letting his fingertips dip between the buttons to touch the warm skin of his chest. Daniel shifts slightly, helping Martin unbutton his shirt and letting it fall open, before pulling him back for a kiss. Martin explores Daniel's chest tentatively, running his fingers over the faint scattering of hair, sliding his palm down to the soft stomach. As he rubs a thumb over one nipple, Daniel groans softly against his mouth and his confidence rises. He kisses away from Daniel's mouth, nipping at his jaw and then kissing down his throat, sucking lightly at the pulse point, all the while teasing at Daniel's nipple.

Daniel shifts again, taking off his glasses and putting them on the coffee table out of the way, before stretching out on the sofa so he is lying fully on his back, Martin's weight on top of him. Martin hisses as warm hands slide under his T-shirt and stroke over the planes of his back and he tenses, pressing his face into the juncture of Daniel's neck and shoulder.

“You're all right,” Daniel murmurs, “You feel amazing, you know.” He strokes Martin's back in long, reassuring sweeps until the tension melts away and Martin tilts his face blindly towards Daniel's to claim a kiss. Daniel tugs at the hem of Martin's shirt, seeking permission, and Martin pulls back, sitting up so he can yank the shirt off over his head. He stays there, straddling Daniel's hips, flushed from arousal and from the feel of Daniel's gaze raking over him. Martin is under no illusions about his body: he is skinny enough that his ribs show slightly, with no muscle definition or fat on him. But Daniel is drinking him in greedily, large hands resting at his waist. One hand creeps up to the nape of his neck, tugs him forwards for a kiss. “You,” Daniel whispers roughly between kisses. “Are... utterly... gorgeous.”

Martin can only whimper helplessly against Daniel's mouth and press closer. It is utterly delicious being this close, skin to skin. Daniel is warm and solid and his hands feel amazing as they explore Martin's body, his mouth hot on his neck as Daniel nudges his head aside to give him better access. Martin groans at the feel of Daniel's hot tongue on his throat, followed by a teasing nip of teeth. He is so hard, cock straining against his jeans, and he can feel that Daniel is the same. They press desperately together, minute shifts of their hips causing sparks of pleasure in Martin's brain. How has he gone over thirty years of his life without this?

“D-Daniel,” he gasps. “Daniel, _please_.”

“Please what?” Daniel groans out. He looks utterly wrecked, his dark hair rumpled, face and neck flushed. Martin has never seen anything so incredible in all his life. He kisses him as though his life depends on it, deep and hungry and needy. When he finally pulls away, panting slightly, Daniel rests their foreheads together. “Please what?” he repeats.

“Please, I want... god, can I touch you? I want to touch you.”

“Yes,” whimpers Daniel. “You too, Martin, you too, please.”

They are both so far gone it's a miracle they can separate to fumble off their jeans. Martin gets a leg stuck and Daniel can't work his zip and soon they are both breathless and giggling, kissing sloppily as they struggle with their uncooperative clothing.

“Oh, bloody _hell!_ ” Daniel exclaims eventually, kicking his legs like he's going swimming to force his jeans and boxers down his knees and Martin collapses in a fresh fit of giggles. It suddenly occurs to him that maybe sex is  _fun._

Eventually they are both naked, and now that the laughter has stopped Martin feels suddenly shy. Daniel pulls him down into their previous position and kisses him tenderly. “You can change your mind if you want,” he murmurs, as though his erection isn't pressing insistently into Martin's hip.

Martin shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. Daniel smiles, kisses him again.

“C'mere then,” he says, voice roughening slightly, “On top of me, yeah, that's it...” Martin gasps as their erections press together, and all shyness is forgotten as he presses open-mouthed kisses against Daniel's jaw, until Daniel turns his head and kisses him good and proper. They stay like that for a while, kissing hungrily with Daniel's hand resting on the small of Martin's back, small noises of pleasure escaping them as they gently roll their hips together.

Daniel breaks the kiss eventually, and nudges Martin to lean back slightly before he licks a long stripe across his palm and slides his hand down between them. Martin chokes slightly as Daniel's broad hand wraps around them both, trembling from the sensation and barely able to support himself on his wavering arms. _God_ he is close already, just from the feel of Daniel's hand on him, and _shit_ he can't come now, not so soon, but it's so good, too good... he buries his face in Daniel's neck, whimpering and gasping with pleasure, clutching desperately at the other man's shoulders.

Daniel's thumb rubs across the head of his cock, and his mouth is at Martin's ear, “God, you're so wet. Feel so good. I want to make you come, God, I _really_ want to...”

“Oh God,” Martin groans, pushing his hips into Daniel's grip, their cocks sliding hot and heavy together. “Oh God, I'm close, Daniel, God-”

His breath stutters and heat is gathering in his belly and then Daniel is nudging his head up gasping out, “Let me look at you, I want to watch you come, I bet you're fucking _gorgeous_ when you come...” and he pushes back slightly and then Daniel's thumb strokes over the head again and he is gone, moaning helplessly.

When he comes back to himself he feels punch-drunk, cradled against Daniel's chest as the other man kisses his temple and strokes his back, his soft voice murmuring, “Amazing, that was amazing, Jesus Christ, I nearly came just from _seeing_ that...”

Martin can feel that Daniel is still hard, so hard he must be aching, and he feels suddenly mortified that he hasn't done anything to help here. He kisses Daniel desperately, reaching down between them to wrap his hand around Daniel's cock. He has no real idea what to do here- it becomes apparent that stroking a cock is very different when it's someone else's, with the change in angle and no idea what feels good- but Daniel reaches down and covers his hand, whispering, “Tight, and fast, _oh Christ_ ,” and he thrusts up into their hands, gasping and groaning as he nears his climax. Martin lets himself be guided, learning what Daniel likes, watching his reactions, and then Daniel cries out, shudders, and his hand is bathed in warmth as Daniel falls apart beneath him.

He watches in amazement, unable to believe that _he_ just produced that reaction. As Daniel's breathing steadies he opens his eyes, and grins happily, reaching up one hand to stroke Martin's cheek.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Martin can only nod, and Daniel lets his head fall back on the cushion with a satisfied sigh. Martin lies out on top of him, pressing his face into the warm space between Daniel's neck and shoulder. Daniel's arms come up immediately and encircle him, the fingers of one hand playing with the damp curls at Martin's nape.

After a few minutes Martin is beginning to feel distinctly chilly as the sweat cools on his body. Daniel groans and shifts under him, so he pushes himself away so the other man can sit up.

“Bed time, I think,” Daniel says, stretching. He fidgets for a moment, watching Martin. “Will you... I mean, will you stay the night? With me?”

Martin watches him wide-eyed, and Daniel seems to read his silence as refusal. “Oh God, sorry, no, it's fine, don't worry. Too much, too soon. I just-”

“No!” exclaims Martin. “No, I- I'd like that. To stay.”

“Really?” Daniel grins, standing up and pulling Martin to his feet as well.

“Really.”

It is _wonderful_ to crawl into Daniel's comfortable bed and curl up beside him. Daniel reaches for him as soon as they are under the covers, and he pillows his head on Daniel's chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

“Martin?”

“Mm?”

“I didn't... I mean, I didn't push you too far today, did I? It was all right?”

Martin nuzzles at Daniel's jaw, wrapping an arm firmly around his waist. “I think I was the one that started it,” he reminds him.

“Well, yes, I know, but... I don't know. Sorry, you're not made of glass, I know that, but I don't want to push you to do anything you don't want to do.”

Martin is quiet for a moment, absently tracing patterns on Daniel's stomach. “I was nervous,” he admits. “Really nervous. But I was nervous about starting this, I was nervous about kissing you... I think every new step is going to scare me. But you make me feel safe, you make me feel like I can do it. I trust you.”

This time Daniel is quiet. Then he presses a fierce kiss into Martin's hair. “I'm glad.”


	4. Plant Your Hope With Good Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is in the air.

Several days later finds them in bed. It is a Sunday, and neither of them have to be anywhere. Martin had stumbled in late the previous night, jet-leg kicking in after spending three days hopping across America. He had flopped down on the sofa, head in Daniel's lap, and sighed with relief. “Why is America so _huge_?” he complained. Daniel chuckled and put down his book in favour of stroking Martin's hair.

“Poor darling,” he had said, smiling. His clever fingers threaded through hair, working into Martin's scalp and making him push up into the contact, practically purring from the sensation. “Come on, sleepy head, I think you need to crash for a few hours.”

“Mm. Carry me.” He rolled over onto his side, pressing his face into Daniel's stomach.

“Not bloody likely,” Daniel laughed. “Up with you, lazy bones.”

Now it is late on a Sunday morning, and Martin stirs into wakefulness, blinking against the light.

“Good morning,” Daniel rumbles sleepily. Martin loves that Daniel's accent thickens when he has just woken up. He rolls over to face him, snuggling in close.

“Morning,” he murmurs, smiling. Daniel caresses his cheek, then tugs him in for a gentle kiss.

Releasing Martin's mouth, Daniel continues to press kisses all over his face: the tip of his nose, over his brows, his eyelids, his forehead, the curve of his cheekbones, then down across his jawline to his throat. He can't help the slight whimper that escapes him as Daniel sucks lightly at his earlobe, presses warm lips to the sensitive spot just behind his ear, and next thing he knows he is on his back with Daniel lying half over him, mouthing at his throat.

He touches Daniel rather helplessly, petting his thick hair, clutching at his shoulders and back. Daniel makes small sounds of approval as his mouth travels lower, skimming over Martin's too-prominent collarbone, biting at his shoulders. He moves slowly, as though exploring; Daniel has done this frequently since that night on the sofa, spending simply _hours_ mapping out Martin's body with hands and mouth, though never pushing further than he had done that night.

Daniel's mouth is back on Martin's, and he licks questioningly at Martin's lower lip, seeking permission. Martin gasps against the kiss, willingly opening his mouth to Daniel, stroking the hot tongue with his own. One of Daniel's hands is on his thigh, running up and down and making Martin's breathing stutter against the kiss, and finally unable to hold back a groan as Daniel's palm cups the hot flesh between his legs. He wraps his fingers around Martin's cock, playing with him idly until he is fully hard and gasping.

Then suddenly the warm hand is gone and Martin begins to protest, but Daniel kisses him fiercely and then the hand is back, this time wonderfully slick with lubricant from the bedside table. “Love doing this for you,” Daniel murmurs roughly, biting at the hinge of Martin's jaw as his hand begins to move. “I could watch you for hours.”

 _“Yes,_ ” whispers Martin, pushing up into Daniel's fist. Daniels grins against his neck and sets about taking him to pieces.

Martin had thought that barely anything could feel better than Daniel's hand on him that first time, but the other man has spent a great deal of time proving him wrong. Now, he is putting all of that knowledge into practice. Martin is soon completely incoherent, shuddering and clutching at Daniel as he begs for more. Every time he does this, every time he can feel his orgasm approaching, Daniel backs off, relaxing his grip and kissing away Martin's protests.

The fourth time he does this, letting his fingers go lax, Martin all but sobs in frustration, trying desperately to push up into a friction that is no longer there. He cannot take much more of this, he cannot, but at the same time it is wonderful, so _wonderful_ to be the focus of Daniel's attentions, to be brought to this again and again and _oh_ he is so close and he wants to come so much it hurts but he doesn't want this to be over, wants to stay here surrounded by Daniel for hours, days...

Daniel begins to stroke again and Martin buries his face in the hot, damp neck, clutching at the broad shoulders and he can't keep this up. “Please, Daniel, please I need to... I need...”

 _“Yes,_ ” Daniel whispers against his ear. “Yes, I want you to come. Yes, Martin _, yes_.” And with one final, firm pull Martin's vision whites out, the familiar pressure tightening in his groin and then his release is spilling between them as he tries without success to muffle his moans against Daniel's throat. Daniel's hand is still on his cock, working him through his orgasm and wringing out every last shudder and whimper.

Martin is limp and shaking when it is over, and Daniel strokes his hair, murmuring to him, “Relax, it's all right, I've got you. God, that was incredible, you know that? You did so well...”

Before he has even got his breath back Martin reaches for Daniel, slicking his palm in the come streaked across his stomach. “Now you,” he says urgently. “Want to do that for you, want to make you feel like that. Daniel...”

He knows Daniel better now, knows the pace and pressure to set. Daniel's mouth blurs against Martin's as Martin rubs a thumb over the slick head of his cock, adding a slight twist to his fingers at the end of each stroke that has Daniel groaning. He reaches further down, cups his palm around the hot balls already pulled tight against Daniel's body, rolling them gently as Daniel curses and groans, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

Daniel begins to thrust his hips into Martin's fist, clutching at his shoulders. Martin watches wide-eyed, trying to take in all of Daniel's reactions, every muscle twitch, every eyebrow shift, and he has to kiss him, has to reach up and press his tongue fiercely into Daniel's mouth and murmur against his lips. “You're amazing, so amazing. I want you to come, I want to feel you come in my hand, God Daniel, you have no idea-” and Daniel is gasping on Martin's name as he tips over the edge, warmth spattering across Martin's stomach.

Daniel slumps down beside Martin, gasping for breath with his eyes closed. Martin shifts onto his side so he can watch him, basking in contentment at the idea of a lazy post-sex Sunday in bed with a lovely, lovely man.

Daniel must sense he is being watched, because he turns his head, opening his eyes. He quirks a smile at the sight of Martin propped on an elbow watching him. “Good morning,” he says simply.  
________________

“Skip! Skip! _SKIP!_ ” Martin has only just opened the door to the portacabin before he is almost knocked backwards by Hurricane Arthur. “SKIP!”

“My god, Arthur, it's far too early in the morning for that!” Martin exclaims, trying to fend off their over-excited steward. “What on earth is going on?”

“Did you not remember, Martin?” Douglas is sitting with his feet up on the rickety table, ostensibly not doing his paperwork. “It's now a week until Arthur's birthday.”

“Oh! Oh, right. Well, er. Good?”

“And Mum says because I'll be thirty, which is important for some reason, I can have a big party!”

Martin shares a bewildered look with Douglas. “I hated turning thirty,” he says, pulling out a chair and sinking into it whilst Arthur bounds over to the kettle. “Thought 'this is it, it's all downhill from here, and you never really got up the hill in the first place.'”

“People always make the mistake of thinking it's over at thirty,” Douglas rumbles. “I thoroughly enjoyed my years of thirty-five to forty. Are you thirty-five yet, Martin?”

“Thirty-three still. My birthday's not til October. I think thirty-four might turn out to be my favourite age so far, though.”

“Are we invited to your party, Arthur?” Douglas calls over his shoulder.

“Obviously!” comes the exclamation. “You chaps are top of the list! You can bring people if you want as well, there's enough room. I want to meet your boyfriend, Skip!” Arthur hands Martin a mug of tea, beaming.

“When is it?”

“Next weekend, on Saturday. It's going to be _brilliant._ ”  
_______________

“I thought you'd be nervous,” Daniel comments. “Meeting the family and everything.”

“I am nervous!” Martin exclaims, almost-but-not-quite burning his hand as he spills hot water in an attempt to make tea. “Can you not tell?”

“You're hiding it very well.” Arms wrap around his waist and Daniel's cheek rubs into his hair.

“Liar.”

“Ouch. You wound me.”

Martin chuckles, trying to awkwardly bin the teabags and pour milk with Daniel refusing to let go of him. “All right, limpet, tea's up,” he says eventually, wriggling free.

After breakfast Martin is about to head to the shower when Daniel grabs him and pulls him in for a sweet, tea-flavoured kiss. “Can I ask you something?” he murmurs against Martin's mouth.

“Mm?” Martin isn't really listening, concentrating on trying to deepen the kiss again.

“I know it's possibly not the greatest timing but... I was wondering. And say no if you like, I'll understand, I promise. But I've been thinking, and I think, well...”

“Get on with it,” Martin mutters before Daniel descends into a nervous blather.

“Would you like to move in?”

Martin pulls back to stare at Daniel wide-eyed, sure he has heard wrong. “Move in? Here? With you?”

“Here,” agrees Daniel. “With me.”

 _“Really?”_

“Yes! I mean, I know it might be a bit fast, we've only been together for three months, but you're here all the time and when you're not I miss you and you hate your place anyway-”

Martin seizes the back of Daniel's head, knotting his fingers in the thick hair, and yanks him into an enthusiastic kiss. “Is this a yes?” Daniel manages to gasp out.

“Yes,” Martin mutters, biting at Daniel's lower lip. “Yes, of course I bloody well will.” Daniel beams and leans forward and they lose themselves in a few minutes of fierce kissing. Eventually they have to pause to catch their breaths, foreheads together. “Daniel?”

“Yeah?”

“We've been together for three months, one week and one day. For the record.”  
________________________

“Bloody hell.” They pull up in Daniel's battered Corsa, and Daniel's mouth falls open at the sight of Carolyn's rather impressive house. “Your boss lives _here_? I thought the company was always about to go bust.”

“It is,” Martin sighs. “It's a long story.”

He feels nervous now, about introducing Daniel to the rest of MJN. It had been said as a joke, but it does feel like meeting the family; he has no intention of introducing Daniel to Caitlin or Simon any time soon. He is also trying very hard not to think about the last time he was at Carolyn's house. As they walk across the gravel driveway, Daniel looks at him carefully.

“All right?”

“I will be.” He tries to sound confident. Daniel takes his hand as they walk and squeezes tightly. Martin squeezes back, wondering whether he can hang onto Daniel's hand for the rest of the party.

“SKIP!” Martin finds himself once more with an armful of Arthur mere seconds after he rang the doorbell. Arthur almost lifts him clean off his feet in his enthusiasm.

“Happy birthday, Arthur,” he gasps, massaging his ribs as he spoke. “This is Daniel.”

“Hi Daniel!” Arthur all but shouts, wringing Daniel's hand.

“Hullo Arthur. Happy birthday! I've heard a lot about you.”

“ _Wow_! You're _Scottish_!”

“Er, yes?”

“Arthur,” exclaims Martin in exasperation. “We fly people of every nationality to countries all over the world. Is it still a novelty to meet non-English people?”

“Oh, yeah!”

“My God,” Daniel murmurs to Martin as they follow Arthur into the house. “You weren't exaggerating about him.”

“Not even a little,” Martin agrees.

The party seems to take up the kitchen, living room and garden, which the living room opens onto through French doors. There are a lot of people there that Martin doesn't recognise, but they are heralded by Douglas as soon as they step outside.

“Ah, if it isn't our gallant captain!”

“Hi, Douglas. This is-”

“Daniel, I presume?” Douglas shakes Daniel's hand, his face friendly but Martin can see a hard glint in his eye. He steels himself, waiting for some sarcastic Douglas comment.

“That's me,” Daniel responds cheerfully, clearly not seeing the glint. “And you're Douglas. You're pretty much exactly how I imagined you.”

“I like to think of myself as larger than life,” says Douglas airily. “Drinks? There's some excellent wine, Martin. You remember that red Arthur mulled?”

“Oh God, don't tell me-”

“No, no! I don't think Arthur's been let near it. Yet. I'd swoop in and get some before he finds some tic tacs.”

Wine successfully retrieved, they find themselves a table on the patio. Douglas is asking Daniel about his work at the university, which Daniel loves to talk about. Martin is content to sip his wine and listen with half an ear. He almost jumps when Daniel's hand comes to rest on his knee, and he can't help but smile at him like an idiot.

__________________

Carolyn knocks back a glass of red wine more quickly than she should, but she feels she deserves it now that the party is finally going. There are plenty of people, and one thing about Arthur is that he is a very good host, happy to chat to everybody and keeps an eye on drinks. She knows she can leave him to it.

Making her way out onto the patio she sees Douglas and Martin at a table, in the company of a fairly handsome dark-haired man, who is sitting very close to her captain. Ah, she remembers, Martin's new beau.

She has felt enormously protective over Martin over the previous months, keeping more of an eye on him than she imagines he noticed. He has certainly been a great deal happier since this chap came onto the scene, but she intends to have a chat with whatever-his-name-is, to check that everything is ship shape.

She sails over to the table and pulls up a chair. “Good afternoon, drivers!” They mutter their usual greetings.

“Ah, you must be the boss?” The boyfriend smiles at her, eyes crinkling behind his glasses and good lord, he has _dimples_. She finds herself strangely approving of Martin's taste.

“Carolyn Knapp-Shappey,” she says, offering a hand, which he shakes firmly.

“Daniel Hayes.”

“You're from Edinburgh then, Daniel?” Carolyn hopes she's pegged the accent correctly.

“Originally, yes. My family crept ever more South when I was younger, but I never quite lost the accent.”

As they talk, Carolyn finds that she likes Daniel. He is easy-going, friendly, and interested in everything they are saying. He is also endearingly awkward at times, stumbling over words and getting himself muddled, in a way that is very reminiscent of Martin. She can't help but warm to him, particularly when she sees the way Martin looks at him, clearly besotted, and the way Daniel looks at Martin with similar adoration. They are quite sickening together.

She isn't prepared to let Daniel off the hook that easily, though and nor, it seems, is Douglas. When Martin leaves the table to get more drinks, and is accosted by Arthur halfway, they both turn to Daniel, who looks a little startled.

“I presume it's time for the Spanish inquisition,” he says mildly.

“Why would you think that?” says Douglas, though the fierce look on his face belies his innocent words.

“Well, I presumed that you'd all be feeling pretty worried about Martin seeing someone else now, so...”

“What has Martin told you about his last relationship?” asks Carolyn carefully. Daniel checks quickly over his shoulder.

“I'm only talking about this because I know you two know,” he says in a low voice, a hint of anger at the edges. “And, I mean, there are things that... are private. Between me and Martin. Well, obviously between me and Martin, but anyway, I'm not going to tell you anything that's just for us. All right?” At their nods he sighs, pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes. “I need you to know how much I lo- how much I care about him. I've had relationships before, though only two were serious, really, not that that matters, but sometimes people care about that kind of thing, but... anyway, I've never felt like this about anyone else. My last partner got a job in Canada and moved there, and I found I didn't care as much as I thought I would. I mean, I cared, obviously, that he was going and that our relationship was over, but I thought I'd be inconsolable or something but instead I was just... okay. It never occurred to me to move with him. But if Martin told me he was moving to the other side of the world? I'd up and go with him without a second thought.” He hesitates, looks thoughtful. Douglas and Carolyn remain quiet, watching him like a pair of hawks trying to decide whether to catch a mouse. “At first he just told me his last relationship had ended badly, and that he didn't want to rush things. Fair enough, you know, it can be really difficult starting afresh when you've had a messy breakup. But it was sort of... obvious that there was more to it than that. I felt like anything had the capacity to scare him away completely. Eventually he told me- well, I asked and he told- that his last partner had abused him.” Daniel's face darkens, and his voice tightens, as though he is struggling to control it. “If I ever find out who he was...”

“I broke his nose for him,” Douglas offers.

“You did?” Daniel and Carolyn say together.

“Oh yes. I wish I could have done more. Drunk out of his skull, coming out with all manner of disgusting and, frankly, unimaginative things. It seemed only proper to punch his lights out.”

“Well, good,” says Daniel. “Though God knows I'd still like to get my hands on him myself. Not that I'm capable of punching anyone. I could probably give him a good kick in the balls if it came to it.” He almost smiles, then sobers quickly. “Martin hasn't told me any details really, but just from how he's... reacted to some things... it makes me so furious I don't know what to do. I'd never hurt Martin. Ever.”

Daniel's expression is fierce, and Carolyn has to believe him. She nods.

“We had to talk to you,” she says briskly. “We've helped Martin a great deal through this-” she indicates herself and Douglas- “and we have no intention of letting him get into that situation again.”

Douglas nods in agreement. “I'd rather not have to pick up the pieces of Martin a second time. It's much more fun spending my days making endless fun of him.”

Martin reappears at that moment with a very giggly Arthur, who is exclaiming, “I told you I could drink it in one go!”

“I never doubted you,” Martin points out, setting down a tray of drinks. “In fact, I think I told you I believed you so you didn't have to _do_ it.”

Arthur collapses into a chair, hiccuping slightly. Martin sits down with a roll of his eyes. “Arthur felt the need to prove to me that he could, in fact, drink an entire bottle of Coke in under two minutes.”

“Good lord,” Carolyn mutters, covering her eyes.

“And I was right!” Arthur cries.

“I bet I could do it in a minute thirty,” says Daniel, smirking.

Arthur's eyes widen, Douglas grins, and Martin groans. “No! Not you as well!”

“Well, I'm not drinking am I? I'm driving so you can get all boneless and sloshed and lisp at me, so two litres of Coke might be fun.”

“I do _not_ lisp!”

“Oh, yes you do,” Daniel and Douglas say together, and then laugh. Martin goes red and buries his face in his hands. Daniel chuckles and wraps an arm around him, tugging him in against his side. “Would it help if I told you your lisping is, frankly, adorable?”

“Oh God,” Martin mutters. “You just called me adorable in front of Douglas. And Carolyn. Oh God. Kill me now.”

Douglas' grin has widened into one of true evil glee. “When's our next trip, Carolyn? I hope it's a good long one. I'm getting a lot of Martin ammo here.”

Later, when night has fallen and a lot of guests have gone home, they drag out the barbecue. Douglas, Daniel and Mark, an old friend of Carolyn's, are all vying for the place of head barbecuer, which mostly involves flinging insults at one another:

“Do they barbecue at public school, Douglas? I thought you'd have servants do it for you-”

“Oh bugger off and deep-fry something, Scottie!”

“As the only one present who could actually fix a car engine, I think I win on the man points...”

“I fly a _plane_ for a living!”

“Yeah, and your captain is this guy's boyfriend. You lose.”

Martin, meanwhile, is sat contentedly on the patio step, his legs stretched out over the grass, a glass of wine sat beside him. He glances up as Carolyn settles herself beside him as though the stone step were a throne.

“He seems good for you,” she comments, nodding her head at Daniel.

“He is,” Martin agrees. He is watching Daniel's every move, his features softened with contentment. Carolyn suspects she should find it quite revolting, but really she is just happy for him.

“My God, you are completely gone on him, aren't you?”

Martin jerks back to reality with a start. “What?”

“You've gone all googly-eyed just looking at him.” There is a strange note in Carolyn's voice, and Martin glances at her, frowning. “I'm glad,” she says eventually, as though it is a great effort. “He seems to care about you a great deal.”

“He does,” says Martin, wonder in his voice. “He really does. It's so strange. No one's ever done that before.”

Carolyn watches him for a moment. He looks relaxed and happy, happier than she has ever seen him, although that may have something to do with the drink (she distinctly remembers having rather a lot of fun with Martin when he has had a few), but it clearly has a great deal to do with the man at the barbecue who he is gazing at with such open fondness. As she looks over, Daniel relinquishes the spatula, leaving Mark and Douglas to their squabbling. He sees Martin looking at him and smiles brightly. Carolyn excuses herself as Daniel comes over to sit beside him, moving to strike up a conversation with Mark's wife Jane, watching as indiscreetly as she can as Daniel wraps an arm around Martin's shoulders. Martin shuffles closer and puts his head on Daniel's shoulder, and a kiss is pressed into his hair before Daniel rests his head against Martin's.

Yes, Carolyn thinks, Martin will be all right.

_____________

“That was really fun,” says Daniel as he turns the ignition.

“It was,” agrees Martin happily, trying not to lisp too much. He turns his head so he can watch Daniel drive, feeling pleasantly buzzy from the wine.

When they get back to the flat, Martin immediately presses Daniel up against the wall of the hallway and kisses him. Daniel chuckles against the kiss, winding his arms around Martin's waist. “Hello,” he murmurs.

“'Lo,” says Martin happily, nuzzling at Daniel's neck. “'m a bit drunk I think.”

“I think so too,” says Daniel, running a hand up and down Martin's back. “Maybe I should take you to bed.”

“Mm, yes. Bed.” Martin begins to tug at Daniel's shirt. “No clothes in bed.”

Daniel laughs. “You're a saucy drunk, Captain Crieff.”

Martin frowns. “Are you making f-f-fun of me?”

“Never.” Daniel pulls him in close, yanks his T-shirt over his head, and proceeds to kiss him very thoroughly indeed. “I want to take you to bed.”

In the bedroom they proceed to struggle out of their clothes, slightly hindered by Martin's tipsy giggling and his seeming inability to work Daniel's zip. This is not helped when Daniel decides to dig his fingers into Martin's sides, tickling him mercilessly until his knees give way and he is gasping for mercy. Daniel is laughing, and therefore completely off-guard when Martin grabs him around the knees to tackle him to the floor before sitting firmly on his chest. “Got you,” he comments, grinning down at his captive partner.

“So you do,” Daniel agrees, running his hands up Martin's thighs to the edge of his boxers. “You are still far too dressed for this.”

“So are you!” Martin exclaims. “You have a whole extra layer on than me! That is three layers between us!”

“I was right,” Daniel comments, now running his palm over Martin's belly, watching the way his muscles shiver at the contact. “Your lisping is adorable.”

With some effort and rather a lot of giggling, they eventually get to their feet and undress, falling onto the bed with Daniel on top of Martin. He notes distantly that he does not even feel the slightest bit of discomfort at having Daniel stretched out on top of him, essentially pinning him down. Instead, he revels in being surrounded by Daniel's limbs, hemmed in by his warmth. He is being kissed hungrily and he responds just as greedily, wanting more.

Daniel kisses away from his mouth, down his jaw and throat and beginning to mouth over his chest. As his lips and tongue travel over Martin's chest he props himself slightly on his elbows to watch. As he does so, Daniel moves back to his mouth, pushing him back until he is half-sat against the headboard, a pillow behind his back. “Better,” Daniel says happily, and begins kissing down Martin's torso again.

As Daniel moves lower, kneeling between Martin's legs, Martin begins to tense, though whether it is pleasurable anticipation or not he isn't sure. Warm lips move over his stomach, down to his wiry russet-coloured pubic hair, then to the soft inside of his thighs. He gasps as a hot tongue begins to mark the crease of his inner thigh, and whispers Daniel's name. Daniel glances up, his eyes dark.

“Are you all right?” he asks gently.

Martin nods shakily. “Yes, yes, I- yes.”

Another kiss is pressed to his sharp hip bone. “What do you want?” Daniel murmurs. “Tell me what you want.”

Martin closes his eyes as something very close to shame boils in his gut. The pleasant tipsiness has vanished. “I don't know,” he finally whispers, then opens his eyes to look at Daniel.

Daniel looks... strangely angry, and Martin is about to apologise when the other man has surged forwards and kissed him desperately. “You mean no one has ever-?” he searches Martin's face, and Martin can only shake his head mutely, feeling still more ashamed. Daniel kisses him again, long and searching, before moving back down the bed, nudging Martin's legs further apart. “I'd better make it good then,” he says, just before brushing a soft kiss over the damp head of Martin's cock.

It is the most incredible sensation Martin has ever felt. Daniel's mouth is hot and wet and his tongue licks and swirls and he is swept up in it. He tries to watch, because he can scarcely believe that this gorgeous man is sucking his cock and looking so very earnest and _happy_ about doing so. Eventually, however, he cannot keep his eyes open and clenches them tightly shut, head tipped back as he moans and gasps. Daniel moves lower, running his tongue over Martin's tight balls, mouthing at them and flickering his tongue against his perineum, which makes Martin's hips buck and a whimper break out of his throat. Finally Daniel has him moaning brokenly, hands clenched tightly in the sheets, his cock and balls almost dripping, and he tries to warn Daniel that he is about to come, but Daniel simply reaches up, takes one of his hands and squeezes it hard and he is coming, crying out helplessly as Daniel swallows around him.

He can barely catch his breath afterwards, and he burrows into Daniel's arms whispering a shaky litany of “oh God” and “thank you, thank you” and “Daniel”.  
_____________________

Martin begins to spend a lot of time waiting for the other shoe to drop – surely things with Daniel cannot keep going so well? They get on like a house on fire, and any disagreements are swiftly sorted out. Martin had been convinced after their first minor disagreement (over who had agreed to go and get the shopping) that that was that, but it turned out that in relationships these things happen and it is okay. He cannot believe that after ten years he has finally escaped the shared house: the first morning he had woken up next to Daniel after moving in he had nearly wept with happiness, knowing that he would be waking up here most mornings.

Things are too perfect, Martin thinks. It is inevitable that something will go wrong.

They are in bed. It is a Sunday afternoon, and they have spent most of the day lounging about in various states of undress, kissing and cuddling. A few minutes ago Daniel had tugged off Martin's boxers and wriggled down the bed to run the side of his nose against Martin's very interested cock.

Martin is losing himself in the sensation of Daniel's hot, wet mouth on him, the clever tongue teasing and swirling over the head. One hand is wrapped around the base of his cock, and the other comes up to fondle his balls. At that he tips his head back, groaning his pleasure as he grips helplessly at Daniel's hair. He feels Daniel smile around him, and two curious fingers stroke against his perineum, making his hips jerk involuntarily as he gasps. The fingers continue to press and stroke, causing little jolts of pleasure to ripple through him, but then suddenly the fingers stray further back, ghost gently across his entrance and circle the muscle there and all pleasure is eclipsed by a sudden tight panic in his chest. He gasps and before he knows what he is doing he has scrambled up and away, choking out, “No, don't!” He almost falls over himself in his haste to get off the bed, his breathing coming short and fast, trying to swallow down the panic threatening to overwhelm him.

When he comes back to himself he is sat on the floor in the bathroom, trembling and still struggling to breathe properly. Even the sensation of a gentle, careful touch _there_ had felt like a violation, had felt so _wrong_. Even though it was Daniel; good, kind, gentle Daniel, who _understood_. It had not been enough to over-ride his immediate reaction. He leans his forehead on his knees, pulled up to his chest, and concentrates on breathing.

There is a gentle tap at the door. “Martin? Are you all right?” Daniel sounds so worried. Guilt twists Martin's gut. “I'm so, so sorry.” A pause. “Can I... come in?”

“Yes,” Martin chokes out. Daniel has pulled on a dressing gown, and his face is livid with fear. Martin hates that he made Daniel look like that. The other man sits down next to him, very carefully not touching him. Martin hides his face again, unable to look at him.

“I'm sorry,” whispers Daniel again, his voice hoarse. “I'm such an idiot, I didn't even think... God, Martin, I don't know what to say.”

“Don't,” mumbles Martin to his knees. “Don't, it's not your fault. I should have said something.” He knows now that he needs to tell Daniel the full extent of what happened to him. He swallows a wave of nausea. “I've not... I mean, there's something that you... should know. I should have told you before, but...”

“Is this about your last boyfriend?” Daniel asks quietly, a slight edge to his voice behind the worry and fear.

“He... the night I left him, he... I asked him to stop, I told him I didn't want to, but he just... he held me down. I couldn't get away.” Hot tears blur his eyelids and he doesn't even try to get rid of them, just letting them run down his face as he blinks rapidly into his knees. “It _hurt_ ,” he whispers brokenly. “It hurt so much, and it seemed to go on forever. He didn't even seem to notice what he'd done. I got away as quickly as possible afterwards, called Carolyn... I was a mess, for months and months. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, I was just a wreck. I was so frightened that you'd turn out to be the same, that at any moment you'd change and be like him... But you're not, you're nothing like him at all. But I don't think I can ever do... _that_. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

Daniel has remained quiet all through Martin's broken, hurried explanation. Eventually, after hearing no reaction, Martin twists his head to peer up at his boyfriend.

Daniel's face is crumpled in grief, and his eyes are angry. Before he even knows what he's doing, Martin has turned towards him, wrapping his arms round his neck and hanging on for dear life as he weeps into Daniel's shoulder. Daniel's arms come around him, carefully at first, then pulling him as close as possible, tucking Martin's head under his chin.

“I am never, ever letting anyone hurt you again,” Daniel whispers fiercely against Martin's ear. “You're my darling, you know.”

After several minutes they grow cold sitting on the bathroom floor. Daniel helps Martin to his feet; Martin feels embarrassed now by his reaction, and mumbles “sorry” whilst staring at his feet. Daniel grasps his chin and tilts his head up, gazing at him with a strangely sad look on his face.

“Don't,” he says firmly. “It is _fine_. Now, I think we should get dressed, go for a walk, then come back for a cuppa and a cuddle on the sofa. How does that sound?”  
__________________  
Of course, it isn't as easy as having a walk, a cup of tea, and a cuddle, though those things do help. Daniel treats Martin very carefully all day, as though he will break at the slightest thing, and though Martin knows Daniel is totally justified (after all he had had a panic attack and broken down in tears that morning), he can't help but feel quietly angry. He does not want to be _coddled_ or seen as some delicate flower. He's fine, he's been fine, and he just wants to carry on as normal.

He doesn't say any of this though, and Daniel seems to take his silence and tension as remnants from the morning. They go to bed early, and Martin tells himself sternly to stop being an idiot. Daniel is simply being caring and thoughtful. He scoots closer once they are under the covers and tucks himself into Daniel's side, head on his shoulder.

“All right?” Daniel asks, arms coming around him.

“Mm hm,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “Just tired.”

He wakes hours later, heart pounding, drenched in a cold sweat, and gasping for breath. He yanks himself away from Pete, _no no not again no_ and then the bedside light is switched on and it is _Daniel_ , not Pete and he chokes on a sob, limbs trembling.

A warm, dry hand touches between his shoulder blades and he tenses. “It's all right, love. It's all right. Just a nightmare. You're okay.”

He shakes his head fiercely and clutches at his hair. “It's not,” he grinds out. “It's not okay, it's not.”

“Martin, love-”

“No!” he exclaims, and he keeps his head down, staring at his hands curled into fists on his thighs, because he can't look at Daniel right now. “No, it's not fine. I thought I was getting better, I thought I was okay, but I'm _not_. Don't you see? He is _still there_. I can't get away from him, and I am _sick_ of it.” He pushes himself off the bed, starting to pace, unable to keep still. “I'm _bored_ of it, Daniel. I'm bored of him always lurking at the back of my mind, I'm bored of always waiting for something to happen, I am _sick and tired_ of the nightmares and the panic attacks and I am _furious_ about what he has taken away from me. How _dare he_?” He pauses, draws in a deep and shaky breath. Daniel reaches out a hand and goes to speak, but Martin interrupts. “But it's not him any more, is it? It's me. I'm doing this to myself. I'm the one getting scared and making issues and not moving on and being weak. I hate this. I want it to stop. Why won't it stop?”

Finally he looks at Daniel, who is pale and sleep-tousled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “This isn't your fault, Martin,” he says. “And you are _not_ weak. You've been through something truly awful, and you've come out the other side. You have moved on. I've seen it. You need to be easier on yourself.”

“Easier?” exclaims Martin, wrapping his arms around his shivering torso. “Easier? You think this is how I want to be? You think if I were easier on myself I would seem _less_ pathetic?”

“Stop it!” Daniel says hoarsely. “Martin, stop it! I don't know what you want from me. I've tried to do the right thing, and I will carry on trying because _I love you_ and I'm not going to stop, but I don't know what you need me to be right now. But I am not going to sit here and listen to you say those things about yourself. I won't.”

They stare at one other, Martin breathing hard and shaking, Daniel angry and still. Finally, Martin crumbles, staggering forward and sinking to his knees in front of Daniel.

“I'm scared,” he whispers, burying his face in Daniel's lap. “What if this never stops?”

“Oh, love,” Daniel murmurs, threading his fingers through Martin's curls. “It will, it _will_ stop. It's already got better, hasn't it? It's not even been a year. You need to give yourself time. Remember what you were scared to do in the weeks after? And look at where you are now. This isn't going to beat you.”

Martin doesn't reply. They stay like that for long minutes, Daniel rhythmically stroking Martin's hair until the shaking stops and his breathing quiets. Then, wordlessly, he tugs him up and onto the bed. Martin goes willingly, letting Daniel get them under the covers. He lies on his side, curled up, and Daniel presses up behind him, legs tucked together and an arm around his waist. He concentrates on matching his breathing to Daniel's, and eventually drifts into a dreamless sleep.  
____________

The next day Martin feels rather ashamed of himself, though Daniel refuses to listen to any of his apologies. When Daniel leaves for work Martin feels rather at a loss; he isn't flying until tomorrow, and he has no van jobs. He feels rather better after getting everything out of his system the night before, but he feels exhausted and drained. The nightmare especially had been an unpleasant reminder that he is very much not all right yet, and it presses on him all morning, sitting at the back of his mind. Eventually, he makes a cup of tea, steels himself, and calls his old therapist.

She is surprised to hear from him, but very willing to listen. He is glad that he caught her at a time when she can talk; he doesn't think he could have called again. He stumbles through an explanation about what had happened, and she doesn't speak until he has rambled into silence.

Her tone is warm, concerned, but no-nonsense. She reminds Martin of his old English teacher, who had never shouted, but always brooked no argument. She tells him he has made excellent progress, that some stumbling blocks are still inevitable, and the nightmare is his subconscious trying to process the earlier panic attack. She tells him that problems with intimacy were to be expected, and that he has made the progress he has is a clear sign that he is recovering.

“Recovery is a _process_ , Martin,” she says gently. “Don't rush yourself. It's frustrating, and any feelings of anger or resentment are perfectly normal and you should not bottle them up. But at the same time remember how far you have come, all right?”

When he finally hangs up, with a promise that he will call again should he need to, he feels as though a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He wants to call Daniel, to tell him, but contents himself with curling up with a book for an hour before he drifts into a doze on the sofa.

____________________

When Martin blinks his eyes open, evening has fallen and the flat is filled with light. He stirs with a groan and sits up, a blanket falling from his shoulders. Daniel is in the kitchen by the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. He glances over as Martin sits up.

“Hullo, sleepy-head,” he says, laying down his wooden spoon and coming over to the sofa. He sits down beside Martin and pushes the hair back from his head. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” says Martin, smiling at him. “Are you?”

“Course I am.” Daniel winds his arms around Martin's shoulders to give him a brief hug. Martin leans his head on a broad shoulder.

“I really am sorry about last night,” he murmurs.

Daniel pulls away, fixing Martin with a glare. “What did I tell you? Stop apologising. You don't need to.”

 _“I_ think I need to. So will you just accept it?”

Daniel sighs. “Okay, okay. I accept your apology, love.”

“Thank you.” Martin wraps his arms back around Daniel, silently demanding another hug. “I rang my old therapist today.”

“Oh yeah? Did it help?”

“I think so. I felt a lot better afterwards.”

“That's really good.” Daniel kisses his forehead. “I'm making curry. Want some?”

______

The months drift on, and still Daniel shows no sign of leaving, or of growing bored or irritated with Martin. Instead, he is as affectionate and loving as ever. They have disagreements, they argue sometimes (Daniel thinks that Martin works too hard; Martin thinks Daniel doesn't understand what it is to be properly poor), but they talk it out and go to bed to fall asleep next to one another's warmth.

Martin still has the occasional nightmare, the odd flash of memory at unexpected moments, but they are now few and far between. He had deliberately walked up the road Pete had lived on, and saw a young woman and her friend taking bags of shopping into the flat. He had suspected as much: Pete had moved on. He hoped that, wherever he was, he wasn't making some other poor man's life a misery.

After five months being together, they go away for a few days to Cromer, in Norfolk. Daniel remembers the place from his childhood holidays to the beach. Martin's family had always gone camping in Wales for their holidays, so he enjoyed exploring the seaside towns. Daniel had insisted on going crabbing at a nearby town, which was a new activity to Martin, but he found it rather relaxing, lounging on the sun-warmed stone at the harbour and watching the boats bob in their moorings as they waited for the crabs to snag the bait.

The next day the beach is windswept and chilly, not so much sandy as stony. It is September, so the family holiday-makers have left, and they have the beach mostly to themselves, with some distant dog-walkers. They pull on light jackets and Daniel yanks a woolly green hat over Martin's hair, and Martin pulls a face at him.

“You look lovely,” Daniel says, grinning and kissing Martin's freckled nose. Martin snorts, but he keeps the hat on.

They stroll along the Cromer beach, looking in rock pools and trying not to slip on seaweed. Martin tries to teach Daniel to skim stones, but he proves to be truly abysmal at it. They spend a fun few minutes throwing a frisbee to an over-excited collie and chatting to its owner, after which Daniel gives Martin puppy eyes and asks if they can have a dog. Martin rolls his eyes, and points out that a dog would be very unhappy cooped up in their flat for most of the day. He cheers Daniel up by buying fish and chips from a very good shop near the seafront, and they walk along the pier munching contentedly, the scent of vinegar wafting around them.

The cottage they stayed in was small and white-washed, standing rather precariously close to the cliffs. On their last day the rain came down in sheets, so they stayed curled in bed all day, emerging only to use the bathroom and find some food. Lying there in their country cottage, listening to the rain hammering against the windows and roof, with Daniel's head pillowed on his chest, soft hair curling around his fingers, Martin dared to believe that this would last.

“Maybe we could get a dog sometime,” he murmurs sleepily. “If we can ever afford a proper house.”

He feels Daniel smile against his skin, pausing where he is tracing patterns across Martin's stomach and hips. “I've always wanted a dog. A good-sized one; a collie, or a lab. Maybe a retriever or a weimaraner.”

“I like those. Their eyes are a strange colour.”

“Like yours.”

Martin taps him sharply on the head. “Are you saying I look like a dog?”

“Weimaraners are very beautiful dogs.” Daniel presses a kiss to the skin next to his face.

“Nutter,” says Martin fondly. He sighs. “I wish we could stay here.”

“Mm, me too. Carolyn might hunt you down if you take any more time off.”

“With knives,” Martin agrees. They fall silent for a moment. Martin resumes carding his fingers through Daniel's hair. “I love you,” he says after a moment. It suddenly feels vitally important to tell him this.

“Love you too,” Daniel mumbles sleepily against his chest.  
__________________

Martin has been thinking about this for months now, if he's honest. When they had reached their first anniversary as a couple, they hadn't done anything fancy. They had stayed in with a Chinese, a bottle of wine, and a Marx Brothers box set. Martin had looked at Daniel, giggling over _Horse Feathers_ , and could not remember ever being so happy or content. He had nestled his head against Daniel's shoulder, and a warm arm had wrapped around him, tugging him in close. As Daniel's lips pressed a quick kiss into his hair, Martin realised that he wanted to spend the rest of his life like this. A plan began to germinate in his mind.

In his head, the proposal has to go perfectly. He will take Daniel out for a really nice meal, and then get down on one knee. Simple and classic. Or maybe he'll do it at their favourite park on a sunny day. That way it can be a surprise. Maybe he can even take him to Paris, or Rome, to somewhere romantic... for the next few weeks he lets his imagination run.

He will have to save for a ring, of course. He is no longer living hand to mouth, ever since Carolyn had begun to pay him a little, but he is still on a tight budget. It isn't traditional for men to have engagement rings he knows, but the occasion needs _something_. He begins to plan in earnest.

Eventually, after five months, he decides on a plan of action: they are booked to fly to Italy in three weeks. There, he will pick up a bottle of Daniel's favourite vintage. He will arrive home before Daniel gets back from work. He will get everything ready: he will make Daniel's favourite dish, and they'll eat it at a table with a candle, and then he'll do it. He knows what he is going to say. He won't mess this up. Absolutely not.

Of course, what his plan does not take into account is horrendous weather and a tech failure on the return flight from Italy. What he has not planned for is to arrive very late due to said bad weather and a tech failure, necessitating a brief stop over in France to get it fixed. When they land back in Fitton, at long last, he knows that Daniel will already be at home. But he can fix this, he can still get things back on track, it will all just be... slightly later. And he'll be rushed and soaked with rain. But still.

Then the van won't start. And he doesn't have his jump leads. It is a complete disaster! Douglas, luckily, sees his distress, and offers him a lift home. Martin feels as though he could hug him. All is not lost!

That is until the slippery roads, a tight bend, and an idiot in an Audi see fit to combine in the worst way. Douglas swears, Martin yells, the tyres screech, and then his head hurts _a lot._

“Martin, are you all right?” Douglas asks, sounding shaken and slightly angry.

“Fine, I think. Are you?”

“Oh yes. Or I will be, once I give that complete berk a piece of my mind...” and with that, Douglas slams out of the car to the Audi, which seems to have taken the worst of the crash. He is back a few minutes later, grimacing.

“The chap got knocked out. He's very confused. I'll have to call an ambulance.”

Martin buries his face in his hands, trying to ignore his pounding head. He'll have an impressive bruise tomorrow judging by the throbbing in his temple. Not that he cares about that – what he cares about is that tonight is now irrevocably _ruined_. He'll never be able to pull it back. He feels utterly miserable.

He gets out of the car and helps Douglas examine the damage to the Lexus, which is not as bad as the other man's Audi. Douglas is cursing and muttering to himself, but acknowledges that it could have been worse. The other man tries to get out of his car, but is clearly very concussed. Douglas goes over to force him to sit down, and is rewarded by the man throwing up on his shoes. Martin digs a spare jacket out of his flight bag and wordlessly drapes it over the other man's shoulders. It seems the thing to do.

The ambulance finally appears and the paramedics load up the concussed man, and then insist on checking Douglas and Martin over for injuries, despite their insistence that they're fine. A police car then pulls up to deal with the two cars, and Martin's mobile begins to ring. Checking his phone, he sees to his horror that he also has several texts from Daniel. He was supposed to have been back _hours_ ago!

“Daniel!” he gasps as soon as he answers the phone. “I'm so sorry, I-”

“Where are you!?” Daniel's voice hovers between scared and angry.

“I'm sorry, we landed late, and Douglas was giving me a lift back but we've had a bit of a crash-”

“A _crash_?” Daniel all but shrieks. “A crash!? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, just a knock on the head, but we had to wait for the ambulance for the other guy. I should have called you, I'm really sorry-”

“No, no... well, yes, you should, but it's fine, at least you're okay. Where are you? Shall I come and pick you up?”

“I- let me just check, Douglas is talking to the police, I don't know if I have to go with them...”

The police officers assure him that he can leave once they have his statement, which takes only a few minutes: it all happened so quickly, he barely has anything to say. He sits sideways on the passenger seat of Douglas' car, door open and his feet in the road. The rain is still thrumming down, but he's wet already so it hardly matters. He doesn't even really notice. He sits with his head hanging down, twisting his long fingers together. His hands are shaking, he notes distantly, and he supposes he's rather shocked by the crash.

The bottle of wine is still down in the footwell, miraculously unbroken. He glances at it, and his chest tightens. _Weeks_ had been spent planning this. _Weeks._ It would have been perfect, but now it's ruined, and he just knows that now, when he next finds the right time to do it, he'll ruin it. He'll gear himself up too much, he'll fret and panic, and it won't work properly. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, gritting his teeth. His one chance to do something _right_ , and it had failed already. Daniel deserved the perfect proposal, and now he wasn't going to get it. He felt utterly miserable.

Douglas appeared next to him, looking thoroughly disgruntled. “They've got to take the car to a garage,” he said. “I've got to go with them.”

“Daniel's coming to pick me up,” says Martin, looking up at last. “He shouldn't be long.”

“All right,” Douglas nods. “What's up with you? Apart from the abysmal weather and crashing, of course. At least it wasn't your miserable van: I doubt it would have survived.”

This much is true, Martin concedes. But still. This is more than just being stuck in the rain for a while, to him at least.

“Ah, I think your knight in not-so-shining Vauxhall has appeared.”

Glancing up, Martin sees Daniel's battered Corsa pulling up, its headlights shimmering through the rain. Daniel himself climbs out, and even through the rain he is clearly pale and worried, and had come out without a coat. His T-shirt is already getting soaked.

Martin pulls himself out of the car and heads towards him, and Daniel's face almost crumples with relief. “Thank fuck,” he mutters as he pulls Martin into a crushing hug. Martin fists his hands into Daniel's damp T-shirt and presses his face into his neck.

“Are you all right?” Daniel asks, voice laden with worry.

“Yes,” Martin mumbles into his neck. “Pleased to see you.”

Daniel hugs him tighter and kisses his hair, and Martin cannot _believe_ he has managed to mess up proposing to Daniel. He doesn't want to wait, he doesn't want to plan again, doesn't want to give it any more chances to fail, to be ruined. The small box in his uniform jacket pocket feels as though it is burning into his skin.

“Come on,” says Daniel. “Let's go home, get you warmed up.” He extracts himself from Martin's arms, moves to lead him to the car.

“Wait.” The word is out of Martin's mouth before he realises it. He notices that he has grabbed Daniel's wrist to stop him. Daniel frowns, opens his mouth to ask a question. “Wait,” Martin says again. Suddenly, he doesn't care that there are police officers and Douglas, and that it's raining and he was just in a car crash and his stupid van doesn't work and the whole thing was ruined. Thirty seconds in Daniel's arms and those things don't seem important any more.

He doesn't really notice that he's kneeling in a puddle, or that a stone is digging into his kneecap. He fumbles slightly as he pulls out the small box, his fingers shaking from nerves or cold. Daniel is staring, disbelief writ large across his face, and Martin's world seems to shrink to this and only this.

The question comes out rather too quietly, his voice rather too high-pitched, and he's sure he stumbles on his words, but he _says_ it. He says it, and now it's all up to Daniel.

For a moment, he thinks he's made a horrible, disastrous mistake. But then Daniel is on his knees too, the puddle soaking his jeans, and he is not taking the ring but cupping Martin's face in his big, kind hands and he's smiling.

“You daft bugger,” Daniel says hoarsely. Then he starts to laugh. Martin watches, utterly bewildered. Just as he is about to ask what's going on, he is being kissed fiercely, and before he has time to respond Daniel's lips move from his over his face, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his nose. “Course I will. Of course I bloody will. God.”

He pulls away, though he still keeps Martin's face cupped in his hands, thumbs stroking his cheeks, and they sit beaming at each other, mindless of the rain and the police officers staring and Douglas laughing ( _laughing_ , Martin registers dimly. _The git_.). Martin's hair is dripping in his eyes, and Daniel is starting to shiver.

“I love you,” Martin says, honestly.

“I know,” says Daniel, shaking his head. “Come on, I think we need to go and warm up so we can celebrate properly.” He stands, and pulls Martin to his feet.

“Hold on.” Martin pulls out the ring, and pushes it onto Daniel's finger. It fits, which frankly shocks him. Daniel beams and kisses him again.

“Come on,” he says, pushing Martin's hair back out of his face. “Let's go home.”

__________________

Martin lies awake long after Daniel has fallen asleep. A thin sliver of light from the lamppost outside cuts across the ceiling. Martin is sleepy after the frankly fantastic sex, but he cannot seem to drop off. His mind is buzzing with happiness, and he cannot stop replaying the whole night over and over in his head.

 _This is it_ , he tells himself firmly. _The rest of your life._

He can't think of anything better.

  
 **End**


End file.
